BEDESMAN  4 

MARY-J-H-SKR1NE 


BEDESMAN  4 


KAM83C13K 


BEDESMAN   4 


BY 

MARY  J.  H.  SKR1NE 

Author  of  "A  Stepson  of  the  SoU," 
"The  House  of  the  Luck,"  Etc. 


FRONTISPIECE  BY 
ESTHER  C.  ADLINGTON 


"Now»  frondes  et  non  sua  poma." 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1914 


COPYRIGHT,  1914,  BY 
THE  CENTURY  CO. 


Published,  April,  1914 


TO 
THE  INHERITORS 


2138260 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 
PASTURES  NEW 


BOOK  II 
THE  DEAD  HAND  ..........      57 

BOOK  III 
DENIAL    .............   107 

BOOK  IV 
GWEN       ........     ......   199 


EPILOGUE    ............   277 


Book  I 
Pastures  New 


Bedesman  4 


THERE  were  two  of  them,  a  boy  and  a 
girl.    For  one,  this  fact  had  wholly 
sufficed  so  far. 

There  never  had  been  more.  Neither 
could  recall  a  time  when  there  had  been 
less.  There  were  but  sixteen  months  be- 
tween them.  As  Granny  Bold  told  Mother 
at  the  time,  twins  would  have  been  a  lot 
less  work.  But  Mother,  whose  deepest 
principles  forbade  her  to  desire  what  was 
not '  *  sent, ' '  replied  seriously  that  she  was 
best  off  as  the  Lord  pleased.  Deep  with- 
in she  knew  she  wished  for  nothing  but 
Life's  good  gifts  as  they  were.  They 
grew  together ;  the  boy,  strong  on  his  feet, 

3 


4  Bedesman  4 

when  lie  got  to  them,  and  absorbingly  in- 
terested in  Baby's  comings-on  and  creep- 
ings;  till  he  guided  her  triumphantly  be- 
yond the  kitchen  and  wash-house  on  to  the 
broad  flags  of  the  sunny  garden  path  be- 
tween the  wall-flowers  and  the  parrot  tu- 
lips. Thence  they  started,  steadily  and  at 
their  ease,  to  travel  on  together:  both 
clearly  aware  of  a  broad  road  and  a  merry 
one  stretching  on  and  on,  under  good  sun- 
shine. This  outlook  Mother's  grave  pie- 
ties in  no  way  altered.  Calmly,  naturally, 
and  without  warning  or  flourish  of  trum- 
pets, the  road  led  them  to  an  afternoon  in 
September,  fresh  and  fair  and  soft  with 
autumn's  earliest  finger  touch;  which 
afternoon  was  a  beginning. 

The  boy  stood  leaning  his  arms  along  a 
time-worn  gate  between  one  wide,  green 
meadow  and  the  corner  of  another.  A 
green  lane,  a  worn  stony  road-track  in  its 
midst,  ran  away  to  his  right  between  high, 


Pastures  New  5 

ragged  green  banks.  Beyond  the  near 
fields,  swept  by  great,  purpling  cloud- 
shadows  and  bounded  by  far  blue  hills, 
a  wide  landscape  stretched,  sown  with  scat- 
tered gray  villages,  which  thrust  ancient 
church  towers  through  " immemorial  elms" 
in  the  mid-distance.  The  girl  sat  on  the 
bank  and  looked  at  the  boy,  who  was  rub- 
bing his  round  chin  reflectively  up  and 
down  his  sleeve.  Still,  serious,  unsmiling, 
his  brown  eyes  gazed  up  the  grassy  lane. 

His  comely  childish  head  came  of  a  hand- 
some family,  nay,  of  two.  But  the  shapely 
brow,  the  absorbed  gaze,  the  young,  still 
lips,  wore  an  unexplained  air  of  power 
that  was  their  own.  You  looked  at  him 
twice.  He  wore  gray  knickers,  knit 
stockings,  stout  shoes  and  an  ancient 
smock-frock,  a  garment  now,  alas!  fast 
disappearing  from  the  earth.  That  same 
Granny  Bold,  a  "terr'ble  one  to  sew," 
had  made  three  of  them  for  her  dame- 


6  Bedesman  4 

school  boy  William,  far  away  in ' '  Father 's ' ' 
childhood.  Mother  had  put  one  by  to  be 
a  "pattern"  for  Emily.  The  other  two, 
on  week-days,  David  was  doing  his  level 
best  to  wear  out.  Hate  it  as  you  may, 
there  is  a  fearful  amount  of  "stand-by" 
in  a  well-made  smock.  David  looks  back 
with  a  tender  smile  to  this  discipline 
of  his  childhood,  that  his  mother  thought 
good  for  him.  He  has  as  yet  known  only 
one  woman  fit  to  be  a  patch  on  his  mother's 
back. 

Emily  rose  and  wandered  down  the  lane. 
Her  round  face,  fresh  and  sandy-haired, 
was  just  the  plain,  wholesome  countenance 
of  a  healthy  country  child,  whose  chief  at- 
traction lay  in  a  greeting  look  of  uncon- 
scious sincerity  and  good- will.  Outwardly, 
she  was  comfortable  Granny  Bold  over 
again ;  who  always  suggested  the  full  moon. 
Dave  was  "at  some  of  his  thinkings,"  and 
an  unoccupied  Emily  gathered  red  and 


Pastures  New  7 

black  briony  with  resignation  and  slowly. 
There  was  nothing  morbid  about  Emily, 
but  childish  love  is  like  the  daughters  of 
the  horseleech,  crying,  "Give!  give!" 

To  her  surprise  a  quick  call  brought  her 
back.  Dave  stood  upright;  his  eyes  were 
eager. 

"Em'ly — thee  got  to  stand  like  that. 
I  've  a-got  all  of  it !  Look  ee !  Down  lane 
there  Cromwell's  soldiers  did  go  that  day, 
all  a-running.  (The  pack-horses  did  use 
to  come  up  along  under  the  wood,  like  Dad 
said.)  They  run  all  down  through  Pike's 
Piece  there  and  'long  under  th'  archway 
right  away  to  river;  and  there  'em  fell  in 
wir  Squire  Darner  and  's  men,  as  cut  'em 
all  to  pieces.  They  drove  'em  right  up 
and  past  here  again.  That  's  why  we 
calls  it  Bloody  Lane." 

Though  tea-time  approached,  the  sun 
was  new-risen  for  Emily.  She  followed 
him  through  ellipses,  mixed  pronouns  and 


8  Bedesman  4 

all,  though,  the  relevance  of  the  pack-horses 
remained  as  Greek  to  her. 

"How  do  ee  know?"  she  said,  awestruck. 

But  at  the  bottom  of  her  mind  lay  the 
rooted  belief  that  he  knew  all  things. 
The  trouble  of  learning  with  him  counted 
for  nothing. 

"That  gentleman  what 's  stopping  up  to 
Eect'ry  come  in  school.  We  was  read- 
ing and  he  come  and  telled  up  to  we  boys 
'bout  our  countryside,  and  the  fighting  as 
was.  Folks  knows  a  lot  more  things  nor 
they  did  use  to." 

"So  'em  do,"  said  Emily  solemnly. 

"You  shut  your  eyes  and  think  how  'em 
looked!  Helt-skelt!  A-bangin'  and  a- 
clangin' — " 

"Must  a'  looked  just  about  horrid  all 
a-bleedin',"  said  frail  woman. 

He  laughed.  "I  'd  a'  been  there,  broke 
head  or  none!  You  could  get  on,  them 
days. ' ' 


Pastures  New  9 

"So  you  can  now-days,"  said  Emily  stur- 
dily. As  though  any  one  could  ever  have 
got  on,  if  he  could  not ! 

"How  do  you  come  at  it?  I  be  goin*  to 
work  after  harvest.  Fine  lot  o'  chances 
then!" 

She  rubbed  herself  against  his  shoulder 
silently.  He  had  never  said  it  so  plain 
before. 

His  eyes  wandered  back  up  the  lane. 
He  opened  the  gate  and  came  through,  and 
stood,  absorbed  again. 

"Sis,  thee  got  to  go  home  wi'  theeself. 
I'm  for  up  to  Bect'ry,  now  as  ever  is.  He 
did  ought  to  know,  and  he  mid  be  gone  to- 
morrow." 

Emily  swallowed  down  quite  a  small 
sigh. 

* '  All  right.     I  '11  tell  Mother. ' ' 

Along  the  field-path  and  over  the  stile 
she  trotted  submissive  away,  towards  cer- 
tain brown  farm  roofs  and  a  clustered 


1O  Bedesman  4 

group  of  gray  cottages,  half-a-mile  off. 
The  skirmish  in  Bloody  Lane  vanished 
from  her  mental  vision.  It  had  been  seen 
through  other  eyes.  Quietly,  without  any 
emotional  pathos,  her  heart  within  ached 
a  little.  For  she  could  not  see  what  there 
was  to  happen  except  his  going  to  work, 
"underground"  most  likely.  Emily  was 
not  a  person  of  imagination.  Neverthe- 
less she  saw  Dave's  face  clearly,  the  day 
he  would  leave  school;  as  clearly  as  Dave 
saw  Squire  Darner's  men. 

Through  another  and  more  tangled 
green  lane,  she  took  a  turn  to  the  left  lead- 
ing to  the  cottages. 

David  went  straight  to  the  Kectory's 
open  front  door.  He  had  tugged  at  the 
worn  wooden  lozenge  that  was  the  bell-pull 
before  he  suddenly  knew  that  "Mother  'd 
have  a  fit."  The  peal,  resounding,  raised 
a  hot  blush.  But  he  was  going  through 
with  things. 


Pastures  New  11 

"Beg  pardon,  please,  miss,  could  I  see 
that  gentleman  what 's  stopping  here, 
please,  miss?" 

The  parlor-maid  stepped  past  him,  turn- 
ing the  corner  of  the  house  to  where  the 
westering  sun  lay  warm  on  the  garden 
bench. 

1  'One  of  the  boys,  sir,  is  asking — " 

But  David  had  followed  her. 

"Please,  sir, — "  his  words  ran  over  each 
other,  "make  so  bold,  sir,  please,  sir,  I  been 
down  Bloody  Lane,  sir.  I  can  see  't  all 
just  like  you  said,  same  as  't  was  a  picture, 
sir.  And  Father,  he  says — " 

The  man  with  the  large,  hirsute,  gray 
head  and  the  ill-fitting  brown  coat  sat  up- 
right suddenly.  He  lifted  a  big  book  off 
his  knee  on  to  the  seat. 

"Eh?  (I  saw  you  at  the  school.)  What 
is  it  about  Bloody  Lane?  Does  your 
father  know  anything?" 

"No,  sir, —    Yes,  sir,  please.     Th'  old 


12  Bedesman  4 

pack-horse  way  from  Devizes  did  use  to 
come  along  Bloody  Lane  over  Pike's 
Piece—" 

"Pike's  Piece?"  The  gentleman  sat 
more  upright  still.  "Is  it  far,  boy!" 

"No,  sir,  just  through  churchyard  and 
down  meadow  over  the  stile. ' ' 

"Come  along,"  cried  the  gentleman. 

They  were  crossing  the  churchyard  be- 
fore David  knew  much  more,  for  this  gen- 
tleman was  wont  to  go,  when  he  was  set 
going.  "Pike's  Piece,  Charley's  Arch," 
he  was  muttering.  "What  put  the  pack- 
horses  into  your  head,  boy?" 

"Please,  sir,  my  Gramfer  he  could 
mind  of  'em,  when  he  were  little.  And 
you  said  as  they  come  from  Devizes, 
sir." 

"Sol  did. ' '  The  gentleman 's  look  dwelt 
on  the  smock  frock,  on  the  curious  uncon- 
sciousness of  the  eager  eyes.  "What 
made  you  think  out  all  this,  eh?" 


Pastures  New  13 

"Please,  sir,  you  telled  up  that  interest- 
ing. An'  I  got  studdin',  and  seemed  like 
as  I  could  see  'em.  And  I  do  want  to 
know — " 

"Got  studdin',  did  you?  That's  the 
way  to  learn.  What  do  you  want  to 
know?" 

David  drew  a  long  breath,  gathering  his 
forces  of  expression. 

"Please,  sir —  in  them  days,  did  you 
ought  to  ha*  gone  wi'  Squire  Darner  for 
the  King,  sir?  or  did  you  ought  to  ha'  fol- 
lowed wi'  the  Parli'ment?" 

The  gentleman  pulled  up  in  the  midst  of 
the  meadow,  and  rubbed  one  side  of  his 
nose. 

1 '  My  good  boy, — all  my  life  I  Ve  been  at 
that  question.  I  wish  I  could  tell  you.  I 
wish  to  God  I  could.'* 

His  voice  fell  suddenly  quite  solemn  and 
he  ceased  to  rub  his  nose. 

"Personally,  for  myself — but  what  's  a 


14  Bedesman  4 

temperament  ?  The  events —  What  would 
you  have  done  yourself,  boy?" 

David's  face  cleared. 

"I  should  a'  gone  wi'  Squire,"  he  re- 
plied at  once,  "sure  to.  There  was  Bolds 
here,  see,  in  them  days,  (and  looked  on, 
Mother  says),  and  Fielders  too;  and 
worked  for  Darners,  all  on  'em  did.  But 
I  don't  know  as  Darners  was  right.  King, 
he  were  a'  ways  a-choppin'  and  a-changin', 
and  breakin'  his  word  times  and  often. 
And  he  was  on'y  one.  And  the  tothers 
was  for  freedom,  like  Mr.  Gladstone  and 
them  as  set  up  the  co-ops." 

The  gentleman  smiled  all  over  his  curi- 
ous, eager  face  and  down  into  his  shaggy 
beard.  He  began  to  walk  on. 

"You  Ve  got  the  right  sow  by  the  ear. 
But  the  King  was  n't  one.  He  was  an 
embodied  principle  too,  then;  just  as  Vic- 
toria is.  You  seem  to  think  about  these 
things." 


Pastures  New  15 

* '  Mr.  Dicey,  he  give  me  a  book —  Please 
sir,  yonder  's  Pike's  Piece,  where  the  tur- 
muts  is,  and  this  here  's  Bloody  Lane." 

"Ay!    Ay!    Now  the  pack-road — " 

"Down  there.  But  you  'd  have  to  climb 
the  fence — " 

It  presently  appeared  that  the  gentle- 
man regarded  the  prosecution  of  trespass- 
ers as  an  irrelevance.  The  golden  sun 
was  near  setting  and  they  had  walked  about 
two  miles  before  they  stood  again  by  the 
old  gate  that  looked  on  Bloody  Lane. 

"David  Bold,  The  Wick,"  read  the  gen- 
tleman from  his  note-book  before  he  thrust 
it  into  his  pocket.  "I  '11  send  you  that 
book.  You  '11  find  it  a  bit  stiff.  But  it  '11 
set  you  'studdin'.'  That 's  the  main 
thing."  His  fingers  closed  on  something 
round  in  his  waistcoat  pocket  and  he  stared 
stonily  over  the  boy's  head  at  the  church 
tower.  No.  Not  to  a  fellow-studder. 
He  nodded.  "Good-by  to  you."  David 


l6  Bedesman  4 

touched  his  forehead,  and  turned  away  with 
a  lingering  look. 

The  gentleman  thrust  his  hands  into  his 
pockets  and  walked  reflectively  down 
Bloody  Lane,  whistling  low  between  his 
teeth.  At  the  turning  he  pulled  up. 
' '  Ay.  Ay, ' '  he  muttered, ' '  the  boy  's  right. 
You  can  see  it  all,  same  as  'twas  a  pic- 
ture." 

At  the  Rectory  he  turned  indoors  and 
went  to  his  friend's  study. 

"I  say,  Eichards,  is  Dicey  the  name  of 
your  schoolmaster?" 

Crossing  Pike's  Piece,  David  remem- 
bered as  in  a  dream  that  he  had  had  no 
tea,  and  forgot  it  again.  He  thrilled  yet 
to  the  stimulus  of  that  quest  after  the  pack- 
horse  road ;  and  he  knew  that  he  liked  that 
bearded  man  better  than  any  human  being 
he  had  ever  met.  The  understanding  be- 
tween them  was  a  new  thing  in  life.  But 


Pastures  New  17 

there  was  with  David  a  thing  bigger  than 
any  man :  a  widening  of  his  whole  being,  a 
waking,  a  moving.  At  a  gap  in  the  hedge 
he  stopped  and  gazed.  The  sun  behind 
him  had  dropped  in  the  last  moments. 
Vale  and  hills  lay  silent  under  the  faint 
bluish-gray  haze  of  early  evening.  The 
boy's  eyes  widened  and  widened.  He  had 
grown  up  with  that  landscape  as  with  his 
mother's  face.  It  had  words  for  him  that 
no  one  knew.  In  eager  moments,  his  soul 
turned  to  it  wordlessly.  But  he  was  not 
consciously  thinking  of  it. 

It  is  fearfully  interesting  to  be  young 
and  not  to  understand  yourself.  But  there 
are  moments  when  things  not  yourself  en- 
gulf all  that. 

The  boy  in  the  smock-frock  knew  dumbly 
that  he  was  very  small  and  waiflike,  and 
alone  in  the  vast  world  with  dreams  that 
no  one  would  understand,  even  himself. 
The  peasant  does  not  'accept  his  fate';  he 


l8  Bedesman  4 

dwells  in  the  midst  of  it.  But  this  one  was 
aware  that  he  did  not  know  what  it  was. 
Only,  like  a  bright-eyed  frail  young  man, 
who  wrote  a  certain  letter  of  dedication 
from  Davos  Platz,  he  was  sure  that  "the 
best  that  is  in  us  is  better  than  we  can 
understand." 

Then  all  at  once  the  dream  broke,  and 
he  knew  he  was  ragingly  hungry.  He 
turned  and  made  the  quickest  of  ways 
home  to  the  gray  knot  of  old  cottages.  In 
an  open  doorway  Emily  sat,  darning  a  sock 
of  Father's. 

"Sis,  be  there  any  tea  left?  Where  's 
Mother?" 


n 

ON  a  Saturday  "Quar'  come  out"  (in 
the  speech  of  Broughton  Priors)  at 
midday:   tired  men,  having  earned  their 
Sabbath,  emerging  to  look  upon  the  sun  till 
Monday. 

William  Bold's  Esther  moved,  with  deft, 
silent  hands  and  step,  in  the  deep-thatched 
stone  cottage,  that  stood  back  behind  its 
glowing  front  garden.  There  were  wives, 
if  you  'd  believe  it — as  she  sorrowfully  did 
— would  encourage  a  man  to  take  dinner 
with  him  the  same  on  Saturday  as  other 
days:  as  though  they  'd  never  heard  of 
afternoons  at  the  King's  Arms.  But  this 
quiet,  paven  place  did  not  look  as  though 
its  mistress  were  one  of  "them  as  must  be 
all  of  a  clutter, ' '  because  the  week  was  end- 
ing. 

19 


2O  Bedesman  4 

Having  washed  the  onions  and  her  own 
hands,  Mrs.  Bold  stood  for  a  moment  in  the 
sunny  doorway:  a  handsome,  dark-eyed 
woman,  whose  fine,  serious  face  was  full  of 
character.  Only  to  meet  her  going  to  shop 
was  to  be  aware  of  a  personality.  Her 
beautiful  eyes,  severely  steady  but  alto- 
gether benign,  lacked  something  of  the 
country-woman's  wide  readiness  of  reply. 
She  thought  for  herself,  measuring  others 
with  a  grave  courtesy  as  respectful  as  her 
old-fashioned  "drop-curchy"  at  sight  of 
her ' '  betters. ' '  You  felt  that  you  probably 
fell  short.  If  you  were  sick  or  innocently 
sad,  she  met  you  with  a  large  love  not  to  be 
forgotten.  But  from  herself,  and  so  far  as 
in  her  lay,  from  those  around  her,  she  ex- 
acted a  standard  above  everyday,  comfort- 
able conventions.  You  had  to  live  for  God 
in  the  world.  It  was  not  very  likely  to  be 
easy.  In  daily  life  she  bore  about  with 
her  a  scrupulous  dignity  of  the  neat  and 


Pastures  New  21 

the  clean,  the  capable,  the  careful.  Her 
children  did  not  know  what  it  was  to  see 
Mother  look  a  slattern  like  some  of  the 
women.  Her  oldest  gown  and  shoes  were 
tidy.  Her  blue  plates,  that  had  come  on 
from  Granny  Fielder,  were  pale  with  a 
careful  old  age :  but  Esther  never  chipped 
a  thing;  and  taught  Emily,  that  would  go 
to  service,  a  like  care,  as  a  grave  duty  owed 
to  God  and  man. 

It  was  still  much  too  early  for  William 
when  some  one  rapped  on  the  door  and  an 
unknown  voice  asked  if  Mrs.  Bold  lived 
nearby.  The  visitor  puzzled  her.  He  was 
clearly  a  gentleman,  but  no  parson.  She 
found  him  scarcely  tidy  to  be  seen,  espe- 
cially his  beard ;  and  he  was  far  from  con- 
venient in  "the  mid  of  the  morning." 
Good  manners,  however,  bade  her  greet 
him  with, 

"Pray,  sir,  to  walk  in.  There  's  a  step 
down  here,  just  inside.  And  it's  a  bit  dark 


22  Bedesman  4 

— if  you  '11  mind  your  head,  sir.  Please  to 
be  seated." 

She  waited  his  pleasure,  while  he  looked 
round  silently.  He  never  had  seen  an  in- 
terior like  this,  out  of  a  picture,  or  a  novel 
by  the  wife  of  the  Warden  of  Cuthbert's. 
Its  wide  hearth  and  hanging  pot,  the 
bacon-rack  between  the  black  beam  and  the 
wall,  the  dark  dresser  with  its  worn  crock- 
ery, all  gave  him  the  shock  of  pleasure  that 
comes  with  old  things  that  are  new.  The 
woman  belonged  to  it  all.  Both  wore  a 
curious  and  unconscious  dignity,  that  hith- 
erto he  had  only  met  in  association  with 
great  things  of  the  past.  A  queer  shyness 
gripped  him.  It  was  time  he  spoke.  He 
had  pictured  the  interview  as  easy  enough. 
It  began  to  look  different. 

"You  're  Mrs.  Bold?"  he  said. 

"Yes — unless  'twas  Granny  you  was 
wanting,  my  mother-law,  sir?  She  lives 
down  to  the  farm  cottages." 


Pastures  New  23 

"No,"  said  the  visitor,  "I  expect  it's 
you.  You  've  a  boy,  have  n't  you?  Called 
David." 

Esther  Bold's  quiet  face  changed,  subtly 
and  completely. 

"I  have,  sir — " 

"Ah,  well,  I  fell  in  with  your  boy  two 
days  ago.  Perhaps  he  told  you — " 

"Yes,  sir" — her  eyes  were  just  like  the 
boy's — "the  gentleman  as  took  him  down 
Bloody  Lane — " 

"Well,  no.  He  took  me.  I  had  a  talk 
with  the  boys  in  school-time.  In  the  after- 
noon he  came  to  the  Eectory  door — " 

"Not  the  front  door,  I  'm  sure  I  hope, 
sir?" 

"Oh,  the  front  door,  I  suppose.  I  can't 
say.  He  came  round  the  corner  after  the 
maid  to  tell  me  he  'd  found  out  something 
bearing  on  what  I  'd  been  saying,  and  took 
me  off  there  and  then."  The  stranger 
ceased  speaking.  Their  looks  met.  Up  to 


24  Bedesman  4 

now  she  had  not  been  sure  that  she  liked 
him.  His  eyes  were  clear  and  gray:  they 
met  her  with  a  gravity  and  a  sort  of  calm 
aloofness,  which  appealed  to  her  inmost 
instincts.  She  saw  at  once  that  he  had 
something  responsible  to  say  and  was 
thinking  how  best  to  say  it,  just  as  she 
might  herself.  She  yielded,  wondering, 
not  unafraid. 

"Your  boy,"  he  said  slowly,  "is  not 
quite  an  ordinary  boy.  He  's —  What  are 
you  going  to  do  with  him,  Mrs.  Bold?" 

David's  mother  moved  in  her  chair. 

"His  father,  sir,  thought  upon  taking 
him  down  quarry;  you  can  put  your  own 
boy  along.  My  mind  don't  go  with  it. 
Down  there  in  the  dark,  they  forgets  the 
Lord  something  terrible, — the  talk  and 
that.  On  the  land  you  don't  take  the  same 
money.  There  's  the  stables,  or  there  's 
service.  He  's  a  bright  boy — " 

* '  Bright ! ' '    The  gentleman 's  voice  made 


Pastures  New  25 

her  jump.  "He  's  brilliant.  You  ought 
to  keep  him  to  school — " 

"Begging  your  pardon,  sir,  if  you  're 
thinking  of  the  sums  and  that,  the  country 
boys  they  don't  have  their  health  in  them 
shops,  for  all  they  may  be  clever." 

Her  guest  moved  his  chair,  with  a  loud 
scroop  of  its  legs  on  the  stone  floor,  and 
leaned  forward.  He  seemed  to  take  Es- 
ther Bold  into  a  large,  firm,  and  quite  un- 
known grasp.  It  was  the  grip  of  the  ex- 
pert. 

' '  Look  here,  my — my  good  soul.  Put  all 
those  things  out  of  your  mind,  while  I  ex- 
plain. That  boy  is  meant  for  his  books. 
Much  more  than  that.  There  are  two 
kinds  of  gifted  man,  Mrs.  Bold :  the  steady 
useful  fellow,  who  turns  to  most  things 
with  success — and  the  first-rater.  He 
stands  by  himself!  He  has  got  to  do  one 
thing.  Put  him  to  another  job,  you  waste 
him  alive.  But  that  one,  he  '11  do  su- 


26  Bedesman  4 

perbly,  as  no  other  in  his  generation  can 
do  it.  He  's  himself,  that  man,  not  a  type 
of  the  race.  Do  you  take  me?" 

The  dark  eyes  were  fixed  on  him. 

"I  am  striving  to,  sir."  Her  quiet  tone 
quivered  a  little. 

"That  man" — his  voice  dropped — "is 
your  David,  Mrs.  Bold.  You  've  got  to  face 
it.  He  has  what  we  call  the  historic  mind. 
I  know  it,  could  n't  mistake  it,  it  's  my  own 
shop.  But  David  will  be  a  bigger  man 
than  I  am.  He  must  follow  me  and  others, 
must — " 

There  Esther  Bold  moved  and  spoke. 
It  was  not  manners,  but  she  had  to  stem  the 
tide. 

"I  'm  no  scholar,  nor  I  have  n't  any  gift : 
but  oh,  sir!  'tis  not  the  things  as  we  'd 
choose:  'tis  what  the  Lord  sends,  for  we 
to  do  wi'  our  might.  My  David  he  got  to 
serve  in  that  state  of  life,  him  lookin'  to 
a  better.  We  have  to  teach  the  children, 


Pastures  New  27 

sir,  for  to  make  their  callin'  and  election 
sure — " 

It  was  a  kind,  even  a  fatherly  smile ;  but 
that  grip  relaxed  not  one  whit. 

"A  grand  Book,  the  Bible,  Mrs.  Bold. 
It  's  given  you  the  precise  word  I  wanted. 
Listen.  Nicholas'  School  at  Spetterton 
takes  boys  from  the  national  schools  on 
their  ancient  Foundation.  I  am  one  of 
their  trustees  and  have  a  nomination  to 
give.  The  present  Master,  a  pupil  of 
mine,  is  at  home.  I  made  it  my  business 
yesterday  to  see  him,  and  he  says  your  boy 
should  be  well  able  to  pass  the  entrance 
examination.  He  'd  then  get  a  free  educa- 
tion: they  would  run  him  for  one  of  their 
History  scholarships  at  my  own  College; 
at  nineteen  he  would  be  coming  up  to  Ox- 
ford with  the  world  before  him.  That 's 
your  David's  calling,  Mrs.  Bold."  The 
smile  broadened.  "I  feel  pretty  sure 
of  what  I'm  telling  you.  It's  my  business 


28  Bedesman  4 

to  know  a  born  student  when  I  see  him: 
David  will  shape  as  I  expect." 

He  ceased  and  watched  her,  realizing 
that  he  had  a  definite  thing  to  reckon  with ; 
that  it  was  expressed  in  this  woman,  whose 
eyes,  wide  and  lovely  and  profoundly  seri- 
ous, had  felt  their  way  after  him  slowly. 
A  weighty  pause  fell.  He  was  patient. 
At  last  Mrs.  Bold  rose  with  a  glance  at  the 
clock. 

"If  you  '11  please  to  excuse  me,  sir." 
The  two  plates  bore  the  washed  onions, 
peeled  potatoes,  turnips,  and  fresh  young 
carrots.  She  laid  on  sticks  to  kindle  the 
faded  fire.  The  hanging  pot  worked  upon 
an  anciently  devised  hook,  that  even  amid 
the  annoyance  of  this  check  delighted  his 
heart.  Mrs.  Bold  bestowed  her  vegetables 
within;  the  plates  went  tidily  back  to  the 
dresser.  One  might  have  thought  her 
scarcely  alive  to  a  crucial  moment:  but 
the  man  who  wanted  her  David  had  a  con- 


Pastures  New  29 

sciousness  of  firmly  repressed  emotion  in 
the  air.  She  returned  to  her  place. 
"I  'm  sure,  sir,  I  can't  tell  how  to  thank 
you — taking  thought  like  you  have." 
Then  she  sat  looking  at  the  flickering  fire. 
The  black  pot  began  to  whisper  gently. 
He  remembered  sardonically  remarking  to 
another  eminent  novelist  that,  when  the 
Wardeness  of  Cuthbert's  opened  a  cottage 
door,  you  were  conscious  of  hidden  trag- 
edy and  a  smell  of  onions.  Mrs.  Bold's 
onions  seemed  to  have  no  smell.  About 
herself  there  was  no  tragedy,  nor  anything 
that  resented:  only  a  sort  of  fervent  and 
intense  gravity,  wherewith  one  did  not  in- 
termeddle. She  raised  her  eyes  to  his. 

"You  'd  be  making  our  boy — a  gentle- 
man, sir?" 

He  felt  himself  flush. 

"At  Oxford  his  companions  would  be — 
other  gentlemen.  All  scholars  are  equal 
there,  Mrs.  Bold." 


30  Bedesman  4 

He  believed  it  fiercely;  but  lie  wondered 
if  he  were  deceiving  her.  With  the  next 
words  his  inward  thermometer  dropped: 
but  he  thought,  quite  wrongly,  that  he 
understood  her  the  better. 

' '  'T  would  be  a  long  while  before  he  'd 
be  making  much,"  she  said  reflectively. 
"We  haven't  but  the  one  boy  to  look  to, 
if  Father  was  took;  wi'  one  of  them  acci- 
dents might  be — "  She  paused.  "I 
think  as  I  've  took  it  all  in.  He  'd  have  to 
go  now  directly,  'ouldn'  he,  sir!  If  I  was 
to  go  in  Spetterton  wi'  carrier,  could  I  see 
that  gentleman,  and  talk  wi'  him!" 

"Certainly  you  could.  I  '11  give  you  a 
note."  He  tore  a  leaf  from  his  pocket- 
book,  and  she  fetched  from  her  mother's 
gate-legged  table  a  thin  white  envelope, 
which  he  addressed  with  a  firm  pencil. 

"I  '11  have  to  talk  to  his  father.  I  'm 
sure,  sir,  we  'turns  you  many  thanks. 
We  '11  take  the  good  Sunday  for  to  turn 


Pastures  New  31 

it  over,  and  I  '11  step  up  to  Rect'ry  Mon- 
day or  Tuesday.  You  're  leaving,  sir? 
Then  I  '11  write.  Where  to,  please ! ' ' 

"Ah,  yes.  My  name  's  Brownlow — Pro- 
fessor Brownlow."  He  wrote  " Oxford" 
beyond  the  name  of  a  College,  and  handed 
her  his  card.  Both  had  risen:  for  an  in- 
stant he  stood  looking  at  the  grave-eyed, 
personable  woman  with  her  curious  air  of 
refinement  that  had  nothing  to  do  with 
'breeding.' 

"You  '11  have  to  give  in,"  he  said  smil- 
ing; "there  's  that  in  your  boy  will  go  its 
own  way,  whatever  we  do." 

Esther  Bold's  lips  moved  in  a  slow  smile 
and  she  sighed. 

"  'T  is  like  that  with  the  children,  good 
guide  'em — maybe  you  got  'em  of  your 
own,  sir!  Good  morning,  and  my  service 
to  you,  I'm  sure.  Your  kindness  '11  be  give 
back  to  you,  sir.  That 's  certain." 


Ill 

ESTHEE  BOLD  fetched  the  white 
cloth  from  the  dresser-drawer.  The 
Professor's  back  had  disappeared  along 
the  road.  She  laid  the  table  a  little  elab- 
orately, then  she  went  and  stood  at  the 
door.  It  seemed  not  a  morning's  length, 
but  years  since  she  sent  her  white-clad 
quarryman  away  after  his  breakfast.  She 
wanted  to  see  him  approaching,  and  yet 
she  shrank.  Till  he  came  this  moving 
thing  was  her  own  only.  Her  heart  within 
her  was  all  stirred.  It  beat  in  her  ears. 
She  was  shaken  with  it,  and  rebuked  her- 
self. Closing  her  eyes,  she  prayed.  But 
there  came  no  calm.  Facts,  yearnings, 
fears  crowded  upon  her.  She  wanted  this 
big  thing  for  her  child.  Then  she  did  not 
32 


Pastures  New  33 

want  it.  It  was  unknown.  It  was  doubt- 
ful. It  threw  the  future  out  of  drawing. 
Yet  a  mother's  hot  ambition,  below  all,  de- 
sired, yearned  for  it.  If  William —  All 
at  once  she  saw  the  white  figure  at  the  turn 
of  the  road,  and  instantly  went  inside 
again. 

Her  husband,  in  his  cream-colored 
clothes  with  little  brown  straps  below  the 
knees  of  his  trousers,  handsome,  square- 
set,  red-headed,  stood  knocking  the  sticky 
mud  off  his  boots  before  he  stepped  over 
the  threshold.  He  lacked  the  curious,  sub- 
tle distinction  and  character  that  belonged 
to  his  wife.  But  he  was  a  fine  man  to  look 
at,  and  a  good  workman,  and  glanced 
round  the  neat,  comfortable  place  with  a 
cool  pride  of  possession.  He  meant  to  buy 
his  house,  as  soon  as  there  was  a  bit  more 
put  away. 

Esther,  putting  a  plate  to  warm,  did  not 
look  at  him. 


34  Bedesman  4 

' '  You  be  well  to  time,  my  dear. ' ' 
''Where  's  the  youngsters?"  the  father 
said. 

"Down  to  Granny's,  doin'  up  her  gar- 
den. Took  their  dinner.  Yours  '11  be 
ready  soon  as  you  be."  He  never  sat 
down  in  quarry  clothes  of  a  Saturday. 
The  loose  linen  jacket  and  old  brown  trou- 
sers made  him  a  less  striking  figure,  but  a 
more  comfortable.  He  had  half  satisfied 
his  hunger  before,  fixing  steady  eyes  on 
her,  he  said, 

"What  's  up  wi'  you,  missus?" 
Her  eyes  sought  his  silently.  Theirs 
was  a  faithful  marriage ;  though  two  trou- 
bled years,  when  both  were  young,  had 
slowly  taught  her  idealisms  that  the  lover 
she  had  met  at  Mother's  favorite  prayer- 
meeting  was  merely  a  working  man  of 
the  usual  flesh  and  blood.  With  the  boy's 
birth,  its  deep  fears  and  dear  hopes,  she 
had  learnt  to  prize  his  man's  strength; 


Pastures  New  35 

and  he  had  come  nearer  to  understand- 
ing. 

Across  her  jug  of  home-brewed — a  com- 
promise with  his  refusal  to  Hake  the 
pledge' — she  looked  to  see  how  he  would 
take  her  news. 

"I  Ve  got  a  big  thing  to  speak  about," 
she  said,  not  quite  steadily. 

"Eh?" 

"  'T  is  a  gentleman  been  here,  from  Ox- 
ford College.  He  come  after — 'twas  him 
took  our  Dave  out,  that  night  as  he  were 
late  for  tea."  She  paused.  He  eyed  her 
inquiringly.  "He  do  want  for  we  to  send 
Dave  to  Spetterton  Free  School:  says  as  . 
the  child  be  out  o'  common  clever,  and 
they  'd  send  'n  on  t'  Oxford  College,  when 
he  come  up  nineteen." 

Her  husband  read  new  and  strange 
things  in  the  brown  eyes  that  he  had  never 
quite  fathomed. 

"Do  thee  want  it?"  he  said. 


36  Bedesman  4 

1 1 1  don'  know  if  I  do  want  it. ' '  Her  eyes 
showed  her  helpless  yearning.  "I  do 
want — the  Lord's  will  for  >n,  whatever  't  is. 
He  'd  come  up  a  gentleman.  He  'ouldn't 
learn  no  bad  words:  nor  none  o'  that — " 
She  ceased.  Her  lips  were  working,  and 
she  could  not  speak  steadily.  "Thee  'd 
have  to  stand  out  of  's  money.  'T  is  thee 
must  say." 

William  sat  silent.  He  knew  her ;  or  be- 
lieved he  did. 

"Thee  do  want  it,"  he  said.  A  scarcely 
perceptible  smile  touched  his  lips.  "Us 
can  get  along  like  we  be ;  they  '11  give  me  a 
crane  presently  if  I  d'  ax  for  it." 

"Don't  thee  be  takin'  no  risks,"  she  said 
seriously.  The  man  who  'had  a  crane' 
paid  so  many  men  and  held  the  profits, 
which  in  working  a  good  seam  might  be 
considerable.  They  were  silent,  till  she 
reached  a  white  envelope  from  the  mantel- 
shelf above  them. 


Pastures  New  37 

"He  give  me  that  for  to  give  to  the 
schoolmaster.  Us  did  ought  to  see  him, 
whether  or  no." 

"Frank  Fletcher,  Esquire,"  he  read 
aloud.  "I've  a-seen  that  place.  'T  is 
along  the  London  road."  His  eyes  trav- 
eled to  the  clock. 

"The  carts  '11  be  by,  'bout  a  half  hour 
from  now.  Thee  could  get  a  lift  in,  and 
back  wi'  carrier." 

She  nodded.  "Granny  she  rd  give  them 
childern  their  tea;  and  us  could  go  to- 
gether. Else  we  '11  have  to  bide  till  an- 
other Saturday." 

"I  '11  go  down  to  Mother's  while  thee 
gets  theeself  ready." 

"Don't  ee  say  nothing,"  she  cried 
quickly.  "There  mightn't  nothing  come 
of  it.  Tell  'em  the  carts  is  goin'  and  we 
takin'  the  chance.  'Tis  true." 

He  smiled  again.  She  rose  and  stood 
looking  round. 


38  Bedesman  4 

"What  about  thee  buyin'  the  house?" 
she  said,  suddenly. 

" That  '11  be  all  right,"  said  William, 
solidly.  Within,  the  instant  pinched  him. 
It  was  a  cherished  dream  and  had  involved 
a  second  wage-earner.  But  when  Esther 
wanted  a  thing,  it  was  usually  a  weighty 
thing,  a  little  above  average,  everyday  de- 
sires. She  usually  had  it — whether  or  no 
she  realized  the  fact. 

"Us  '11  go,  then,"  she  said  gravely,  and 
opened  the  long  brown  door  in  the  wall 
that  hid  the  stairs. 

The  long  procession  of  low,  solid  stone- 
carts  with  their  heavy  wheels  left  a  broad 
track,  steel-blue,  where  the  big  slipper- 
drags  steadied  them  down  the  long  hill. 
On  a  great  slab  of  broad  creamy  oolite,  a 
ton  and  a  half  in  weight,  Mrs.  Bold  spread 
a  shawl  to  save  her  best  gown.  William, 
beside,  walked  the  long  eight  miles  in  the 
autumn  sunshine. 


Pastures  New  39 

That  learned  and  wealthy  gentleman, 
Sir  Humphrey  Nicholas  of  Compton 
Nicholas^  in  the  second  year  of  King 
Henry  VII,  set  the  clustered  buildings 
of  his  "Free  Schoole  for  all  ye  poore 
children  of  Compton  and  other  good 
menns  children,"  together  with  his  Bede- 
house,  in  certain  lands  and  tenements  be- 
side the  river  Combe :  enf eoffing  three  Fel- 
lows of  Cuthbert's,  Oxford,  and  others  to 
the  number  of  eight,  "in  a  moiety  of  his 
Manor  and  in  one  mese  and  a  toft  cum  per- 
tinentibus  lying  without  it."  The  College 
in  return  covenanted  to  keep  in  repair  St. 
Margaret's  Chapel  and  altar,  where  he 
had  founded  a  chantry;  to  appoint  the 
Chantry  Priest,  and  to  pay  to  him  eight 
pounds  per  annum  for  keeping  of  the  free- 
school  ;  also  to  each  of  the  eight  poor  men 
in  the  Bede-house  ninepence  per  week, 
with  three  and  f ourpence  yearly  for  a  gown 
and  two  and  threepence  for  fuel;  the  resi- 


4-O  Bedesman  4 

due  of  the  rents  being  expended  by  the 
Warden  and  Fellows  in  exhibitions  or 
otherwise  at  their  discretion. 

Thanks  to  his  cautiously  worded  deed  of 
Feoffrnent  and  to  the  persistence  of  his  de- 
scendants in  the  Manor,  the  spirit  of  this 
good  Knight  presided,  through  troublous 
days  and  calmer,  like  a  careful  and  far- 
seeing  guardian,  over  his  green  riverside 
acres  and  thatched  walls,  now  hoary  and 
lichen-grown.  When  in  mid-nineteenth  cen- 
tury certain  Commissioners  came  down 
from  London  with  every  intention  of  "loos- 
ing the  dead  hand  of  the  Founder"  from 
this  comfortable  bit  of  property,  they 
found  a  flourishing  and  superior  day- 
school,  no  longer  free,  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  thriving  cloth-weaving  town  of  Spet- 
terton,  (a  hamlet  in  2  Henry  VII),  where- 
into  little  Compton  had  been  long  since 
absorbed.  Cuthbert's  and  Sir  Hum- 
phrey's deed  withstood  them  to  their  face 


Pastures  New  41 

and  won ;  for  the  school  served  the  trades- 
men class  well,  and  the  exhibitions  were 
valuable.  So  the  government  of  the  place 
remained  in  the  hands  of  the  original  eight 
trustees,  who,  dismissing  the  "poore  men" 
to  Flint 's  Almshouse,  by  Spetterton  Parish 
Church,  adapted  their  old  abode  to  the 
uses  of  a  new  foundation  of  boarders. 
The  latest  successor  of  the  original  Chan- 
try Priest,  a  rubicund  young  layman  of 
pleasing  countenance,  was  playing  tennis 
on  his  sixteenth-century  turf,  with  some  of 
his  Sixth  Form  from  the  town,  when  the 
stone-cart  stopped.  Esther  Bold's  eyes 
took  in  ancient  gateway  and  latticed  win- 
dows, nodding  sunflowers  and  gaudy  dah- 
lias in  the  old  Bede-house  garden,  while 
William  pulled  the  long  chain  under  its 
little  penthouse.  A  gawky  young  man  in 
livery,  who  answered,  threw  open  the  door 
of  a  wainscotted  hall,  carrying  off  the  Pro- 
fessor's letter:  and  they  stood  meekly  wait- 


42  Bedesman  4 

ing,  under  the  brooding  gaze  of  the 
Founder's  portrait  by  Holbein,  which 
hung,  deep-bearded  and  flat-hatted,  above 
the  high  stone  mantel. 

The  healthful  and  slightly  perspiring 
presence  of  the  Master  in  his  clean  mod- 
em flannels  entered  from  a  side  door. 

"Good  afternoon,  Mrs.  Bold.  Come  into 
my  study,  won't  you?"  He  had  shaken 
hands  courteously  with  both,  causing  Wil- 
liam to  blush  up  to  his  hair.  "I  saw  the 
Professor  yesterday.  We  had  a  long  talk 
about  your  boy.  Our  term  begins  in  ten 
days.  Yes,  we  have  a  jolly  garden, 
haven't  we?  I  expect  you  'd  like  to  go 
round  the  place  first."  He  had  rung  the 
bell.  "Tea  in  half  an  hour,  Clark.  This 
way,  Mrs.  Bold."  He  led  them  on  by  long 
passages,  up  and  down  stairs,  in  and  out  of 
tiny  chambers,  and  through  deep,  low  class- 
rooms fitted  with  old  desks — in  shocking 
repair,  to  Mrs.  Bold's  careful  eye.  They 


Pastures  New  43 

followed,  meek  and  monosyllabic,  till 
they  emerged  again  at  length  upon  the 
bowling-green,  where  the  lads  were  still 
at  the  interrupted  game.  The  parents  had 
gone  through  all  the  survey  speechlessly; 
it  seemed  to  them  a  sort  of  dream,  scarcely 
half  realized ;  Mr.  Fletcher  did  all  the  talk- 
ing, and  found  them  "  a  bit  heavy  on  hand. ' r 
But  on  the  stone  bench  under  the  study- 
window,  Esther  Bold  became  aware  that 
she  ought  to  speak.  Her  hands  in  their 
neat  knitted  gloves  met  in  her  lap:  she 
steadied  her  soul  for  an  effort. 

"  I  'm  sure,  sir,  we  be  downright  obliged. 
I  'd  never  thought  as  it  could  be  that  beau- 
tiful; and  the  beds  and  all,  free  gracious. 
'T  is  main  good  of  the  gentlemen.  But 
surely,  sir,  our  David  bain  't  fit.  'T  is  all 
suitable  to  gentlefolks:  and  he  but  a  poor 
boy;  for  all  he  knows  his  manners,  like 
'em  should  all  be  taught,  as  you  knows,  sir ; 
and  speak  the  truth,  as  he  knows  I  'd 


44  Bedesman  4 

pretty  near  die  if  he  didn't;  and  hurt  no- 
body by  word  or  deed ;  and  his  lips  is  pure, 
sir, — please  the  Lord  they  keeps  so." 

Her  subject  had  taken  hold  of  her  and 
she  raised  her  eyes  to  the  Master,  who 
liked  her  very  much. 

"We  have  several,"  he  said  gently, 
"from — from  schools  like  David's."  He 
could  not  truthfully  say  "from  homes  like 
yours."  Board  School  boys  from  the 
town  were  not  like  this  one;  and  he  knew 
it,  though  he  had  never  been  inside  a  coun- 
try cottage.  "They  do  very  well.  He  will 
have  one  of  the  little  Bede-house  rooms 
you  saw.  One  Saturday  in  the  term,  if 
you  wish,  he  can  come  home  till  Sunday 
evening.  Come  indoors  now,  won't  you?" 
For  the  sound  of  teacups  came  from  within 
the  study. 

"He  's  a  real  nice  young  gentleman," 
Mrs.  Bold  opined  gravely,  as  they  turned 
from  the  gateway  towards  the  shops  and 


Pastures  New  45 

the  Anchor  Inn,  whence  "  Carrier" 
started,  "for  all  I  'd  looked  to  see  some- 
body a  bit  more  serious-like,  and  that.  But 
I  could  kind  o '  trust  him. ' ' 

William  nodded.  At  the  bottom  of  his 
mind,  he  felt  himself  miles  apart  from  the 
whole  thing;  in  another  world,  his  own  of 
the  quarry  and  the  fields,  whence  he  could 
not  visualize  this  one.  But  certain  facts 
had  taken  hold  on  him,  among  them  the 
look  and  the  voices  of  the  lithe  lads  spring- 
ing over  the  tennis-court.  When  he  had 
thought  a  bit,  he  spoke. 

"  There  's  a  lot  in  book-learnin'.  I  'd  be 
doin'  a  lot  better  myself  down  quar'  if  I  'd 
had  a  bit  more  cypherin'  and  that.  I  'd 
meant  for  he  to  learn  the  mensuration." 

She  assented  gravely. 

"Thee  must  turn  it  over  and  so  must  I, 
takin'  the  good  Sunday.  'T  is  thee  must 
settle  it,  my  dear,  'cause  o '  the  money. ' ' 

"Did  ought  to  put  up  wi'  something, " 


46  Bedesman  4 

lie  said  slowly,  "for  the  boy  to  come  up  a 
gentleman. ' ' 

His  wife's  beautiful  eyes  were  turned  on 
him:  they  were  swimming  in  tears. 

"  'T  is— 't  is  that  I  be  feared  on,"  Esther 
Bold  said,  with  shaken  voice.  Then  she 
controlled  herself,  going  on  quietly  beside 
him,  with  her  steady,  rapid  step.  He  was 
silent,  vaguely  wondering  if  you  could 
ever  be  sure  where  you  'd  have  a  woman. 

They  reached  home  a  little  after  sun- 
down, taking  the  short  cut  over  the  fields 
from  the  Plough,  where  'Carrier'  stopped. 
The  door  was  open,  and  Emily  ran  out  to 
take  the  parcels  from  Mother,  who  asked, 

"Where  's  Dave?" 

"In  the  window  there,  wi'  a  book  as 
come  from  Eectory.  I  got  supper  laid, 
Mother." 

"That's  Mother's  careful  maid.  Put 
'em  on  the  pantry  shelf,  my  dear." 

Esther  had  read,  with  a  little  stab,  some- 


Pastures  New  47 

thing  she  had  come  to  know  in  the  open 
childish  face.  She  asked  no  other  for  her 
daughter  than  woman's  world-old  drama 
of  dependence:  but  "  'twould  come  hard 
on  that  poor  child." 

Monday  afternoon  had  come.  Esther 
sat  alone  by  the  fireside,  darning,  when  her 
husband  came  in.  "You  be  early,  my 
dear,"  she  said. 

"I  be.  We  Ve  a-finished  up  seam,  and 
I  'ad  a  mind  to  come  back  home  before  the 
youngsters  was  in.  I  've  a-thought,  Mis- 
sus." 

"You  'ave,  then?" 

"Yes.  I  Ve  a-thought.  I  '11  stand  out 
o'  the  money,  Missus.  The  boy  shall 
have  's  chance. ' ' 

A  quick  trembling  shook  his  wife;  but 
her  voice  was  quite  steady. 

"You  be  a  good  father,  my  dear.  I  'ope 
as  he  '11  give  it  back." 


48  Bedesman  4 

William  uttered  a  short  sound — inartic- 
ulate, rough,  emotional. 

"Be  goin'  to  clean  myself,"  he  re- 
marked. 

Esther  Bold  sat  still  by  the  fire,  her 
hands  on  her  lap,  her  heart  aflame.  She 
thanked  God,  and  snatched  the  words  back. 
She  called  upon  him  and  the  cry  became 
praise.  In  the  midst  of  it,  she  saw  her 
boy's  head  pass  beyond  the  window. 

Her  son  was  growing  that  tall !  He  was 
beginning  to  have  to  stoop  coming  in  at 
the  door,  like  his  father.  The  step  down 
inside  made  the  doorway  shallow.  Them 
smocks  would  have  to  go  now!  Fanny's 
Albert  would  be  glad  of  them,  all  but  the 
one  heirloom  for  Emily.  Bless  him!  he 
had  a  comely  face.  Would  it  look  the  same 
in  a  month  or  two  ? 

"Dave,  you  can  wash  your  hands:  and 
Emily,  my  dear,  you  mid  fill  the  kettle. 
Father  's  came  home." 


Pastures  New  49 

The  familiar  world,  the  sound  of  her 
own  voice  and  the  kettle's,  gradually  be- 
came real  again.  But  the  inward  argu- 
ment went  on.  If  the  boy  changed,  whose 
fault  would  it  be?  If  he  didn't,  a  sort 
of  miracle!  God  could  work  miracles. 
David  ought  to  know  by  now  what  went 
before  a  fall. 

"Father,  your  tea  's  ready.  Come,  my 
dears." 

William  sat  in  the  arm-chair  of  au- 
thority. The  firelight  danced  on  Esther's 
comely  head,  on  the  bright  pewter  teapot, 
on  the  boy  over  his  hot  toast,  on  Emily's 
round  eyes  above  her  teacup.  Emily,  hav- 
ing eaten  her  fill,  was  revolving  in  her 
heart  the  question  of  an  adjournment  with 
David  to  the  wash-house;  where,  Monday 
being  boiling-day,  the  copper  fire  was  still 
alight.  In  summer  they  would  run  out 
among  the  trees  behind  the  house.  Mon- 
days were  far  lovelier  in  autumn  and  win- 


50  Bedesman  4 

ter ;  when  they  meant  the  blue  three-legged 
stool  and  the  turned-up  basket,  beside  the 
square,  glowing  mouth  of  the  copper:  the 
cob-nuts ;  the  cold,  bare  boughs  in  the  wind, 
beyond  the  little  window;  perhaps,  the 
snow;  the  warmth  within;  and  Dave's 
stories,  endless,  breathless!  Emily  knew 
no  joy  greater  than  that  hour's.  But, 
from  the  absence  of  talk — she  knew  Dave's 
"signs"  as  a  careful  farmer  knows  his 
heavens — she  feared  to-night  his  head  was 
in  that  book.  She  washed  the  tea-things 
always.  To-night,  before  she  had  touched 
them,  her  mother  spoke,  rather  suddenly. 

"  Father,  I  think  't  is  time  now  for  tellin' 
David  what  we  been  a-talkin'  of." 

The  boy  had  gravitated  instantly  to- 
wards the  dresser,  where  the  brown  book 
lay.  He  turned  his  face  full  of  sudden 
question. 

William  Bold  sat  upright  in  his  chair. 

"You  can  tell    'em,   Missus,"  he   said. 


Pastures  New  51 

When  the  children  were  concerned,  he 
never  was  the  chief  speaker. 

''Come  here  to  me,  David, "  said  Es- 
ther Bold.  When  she  felt  a  thing  deeply 
and  anxiously,  her  tone  and  her  face  were 
never  without  a  hint  of  sternness.  The 
boy  understood  it.  It  only  awed  and  ex- 
cited him.  He  came  and  stood  by  her 
chair. 

"David, — the  Lord  have  looked  upon 
thee.  Father  and  me  have  got  a  girt  piece 
o'  good  luck  come  to  us  for  thee,  David." 

She  paused,  delaying,  choking  back  she 
scarcely  knew  what,  joy  or  fear. 

"There  ain't  a  boy  in  this  parish  nor 
plenty  more  here  round  about,  as  ever 
come  by  the  like.  I  hope  you  '11  lay  it  to 
ee,  David,  and  give  the  Lord  back." 

"What,  Mother V9  David  asked  breath- 
less. The  room  was  shaking  with  Emily. 

' '  Your  gentleman  what  took  'ee  out  come 
here  Saturday.  He  've  planned  as  you 


52  Bedesman  4 

should  go  to  Nich'las  Free  School  to  Spet- 
terton.  They  be  goin'  to  be  wonderful 
good  to  'ee  there :  and  give  'ee  book-learn- 
ing all  free  gracious, — more  'n  plain  writin' 
and  cypher.  Latin  and  history-books  and 
all  sorts.  Nor  that  ain't  all." 

The  boy's  bright  eyes  devoured  her 
face. 

''They  says  if  Father  can  give  up 
thoughts  of  you  earning  anything  or  doin' 
for  yourself,  they  '11  keep  ee  come  you  be 
nineteen,  and  then  send  ee  to  Oxford  Col- 
lege, for  to  see  if  the  folks  up  there  '11  take 
ee  to  instruct,  like  they  does  the  gentle- 
men. This  here  school  have  got  some  sort 
of  a  hold  upon  Oxford  College,  as  they  're 
bound  to  take  a  boy  from  there  once  a  year. 
It  mid  be  you,  David." 

The  boy's  breath  came  short  and 
quick. 

"You  did  ought  to  thank  your  father, 
David,  as  have  made  up  his  mind  for  to 


Pastures  New  53 

stand  out  o '  your  money,  and  part  keep  ee 
'isself  for  you  t'  'ave  such  a  chance." 

David  stepped  across  the  narrow  hearth. 

"Thank  ee,  Father,"  he  said  in  a  high, 
excited,  childish  voice, — "be  main  good  of 
ee,  Father." 

His  mother  caught  her  breath.  The  boy 
had  taken  it  in. 

Emily  behind  had  stood  looking  on 
with  scarlet  cheeks.  Her  little  soul, 
shaken  and  eager,  was  filled  suddenly  to 
overflowing  with  passionate  pride.  He 
was  going  to  be  seen  for  what  he  was !  to 
do  the  marvels  she  had  always  known  he 
could  do!  Now  nothing  could  have  re- 
strained her.  She  sprang  forward  and 
caught  David  round  the  neck. 

1 '  Oh,  Dave,  Dave ! ' '  she  cried  out.  ' l  Oh 
Dave!  I  be  that  glad."  Her  pale  eyes 
glowed  and  danced.  No  thought  but  of 
selfless  joy  was  in  the  child. 

The  boy  turned,  caught  her  by  the  shoul- 


54  Bedesman  4 

ders  and  jumped  with  her  up  the  room  and 
back  again.  His  cheeks  were  flaming :  his 
eyes  lit ;  he  was  a  creature  transformed ;  a 
boy  no  longer, — that  dumb,  conscious  thing 
that  is  a  boy. 

The  tears  leapt  up  into  Esther  Bold's 
eyes.  She  was  not  a  crying  woman,  but 
they  blinded  her. 

As  the  dancing  children  came  near  her, 
she  stretched  a  hand,  rose,  and  arrested 
them,  looking  on  them  with  eyes  of  fierce 
love,  and  shaking  lips  that  for  a  long  min- 
ute would  not  speak. 

"My  son, — when  you  be  come  up  a  gen- 
tleman, mind  what  your  mother  did  say  to 
you  this  night.  Wherever  you  be  and  what- 
ever you  Ve  a-done,  don't  you  never  come 
ashamed  o'  your  sister,  David.  She  do 
love  thee  faithful." 


Book  II 
The  Dead  Hand 


IV 

DAVID'S  box  had  departed  early  by 
the  carrier:  an  ancient  hair- trunk, 
which  had  gone  with  Granny  Fielder  and 
Mother  to  their  first  places.  It  was 
studded  with  elaborate  designs,  in  brass 
nails  which  Emily  rubbed  to  blazing  point 
after  the  packing. 

The  entrance  examination  had  resolved 
itself  into  written  questions,  imprisoning 
in  an  empty  class-room,  till  five  of  a  sunny 
afternoon,  a  David  oppressed  with  a  sense 
that  his  life  depended  on  them. 

In  due  course  a  letter  came. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Bold,  I  am  glad  to  tell  you 
that  David  has  passed  in.  He  should  pre- 
sent himself  here  not  later  than  five  next 
Monday,  when  term  begins.  He  will  have 
57 


58  Bedesman  4 

time  to  unpack  and  settle  down  before  hall 
tea  at  six.  Believe  me  faithfully  yours,  F. 
B.  Fletcher." 

The  sheet  bore  a  square  stamp  with  a 
facsimile  of  the  Holbein  above  the  date 
1487. 

No  one  ate  much  dinner  that  Monday. 
Emily,  mounting  the  narrow  brown  stair- 
case from  the  kitchen,  clad  herself  in  the 
gray  frock  and  white  hat  of  Sunday.  She 
was  to  walk  to  Spetterton  with  David,  and 
return  with  the  carrier.  A  fine  instinct 
that  she  but  half  understood  kept  Esther 
Bold  at  home.  She  had  kissed  and  sol- 
emnly blessed  him,  and  David  was  ramming 
his  new  straw  hat  down  on  his  head,  when  a 
diversion  occurred  in  the  form  of  Granny 
Bold,  bustling  up  from  the  farm  cottages, 
"one  vast  substantial  smile." 

"He  do  look  smart!  Granny  'ad  to 
come  and  throw  shoe  after  'n!  Here, 
sonny,  lovely  and  ripe!"  From  a  seem- 


The  Dead  Hand  59 

ingly  limitless  pocket  came  two  huge  and 
scarlet  apples;  after  more  diving  also  an 
old  bag  purse  and  a  pierced  "  three- 
penny. ' ' 

"Keep  that  and  thee  '11  have  money. 
What,  won't  'em  go  in  thee  pocket?  Let  I 
try." 

"Here  's  my  basket,"  said  Emily 
quickly.  He  was  pernickety  about  that 
jacket !  Granny  with  some  noise  embraced 
the  departing  hero.  With  a  twitch  of  the 
boyish  mouth,  he  held  up  his  face  silently 
again  to  Mother. 

"Don't  'ee  fret  after  'n,  my  dear." 
Granny  came  in  from  the  gate.  "Come 
down  my  place,  or  sh'  I  stop  a  bit  and  help 
with  thee  sewing?" 

"I  haven't  no  call  to  fret,"  said  Esther 
gravely.  "I  'm  sure  you  got  plenty  sew- 
ing, Mother.  Mine  's  most  done." 

The  pair  went  soberly  down  the  hill. 
Crossing  the  stile,  where  the  vale  showed 


60  Bedesman  4 

distant  chimneys,  David  pointed.  "There 
's  where  I  be  goin'."  His  face  was  full  of 
new  things. 

"I  wish  as  I  could  see  ee  there,"  said 
Emily  slowly. 

"They  don't  have  no  girls,"  he  replied 
gravely,  well  aware  that  hers  was  the  re- 
verse of  the  shield. 

"If  'em  did,  I  ain't  sharp  enough.  Nor 
Mother  couldn't  spare  me  till  I  goes  to 
place. ' ' 

"  'T  is  like  as  if  we  had  to  go  different 
ways."  He  spoke  with  a  gravity  like  his 
mother's.  "But  'tis  just  the  same, 
really. ' ' 

She  nodded,  swallowing  deep  in  her 
throat.  "To  be  sure  'tis,"  she  said, 
stoutly, ' '  and  thee  Ve  never  finished  telling 
up  about  that  old  man  in  the  book." 

Sitting  on  the  last  stile  they  slowly  dis- 
posed of  Granny's  apples.  The  short  cut 
brought  them  past  the  tall  white  hospital 


The  Dead  Hand  61 

and  down  into  the  town  about  half-past 
three.  They  visited  Mother's  shops  and 
deposited  Emily's  basket  in  the  high  white- 
covered  carrier's  cart.  Then  under  the 
old  inn's  archway  they  kissed  simply  and 
parted;  a  pair  of  children  " going  different 
ways. ' ' 

Emily  turned  towards  the  shelter  of  a 
friend's  back-parlor  where  she  was  to  get 
her  tea:  she  neither  cried  nor  consciously 
grieved :  she  only  felt  cold  all  over  and  very 
silent.  The  child-soul  hates  the  irrevoc- 
able. 

David,  turning  from  the  inn,  was  glad  to 
mount  back  to  the  lane  between  bramble 
brakes,  that  ran  towards  the  west;  streets 
have  always  an  untrusted  strangeness  to 
the  country-bred. 

On  the  high  road  at  right  angles  that 
went  traveling  over  the  hill  to  London  be- 
tween golden  trees  and  broad  green  mar- 
gins, the  boy  stood  still — a  small,  lonely 


62  Bedesman  4 

figure,  with,  lifted  head,  scenting  the  air  of 
the  future. 

The  town,  set  with  two  tapering  spires 
and  many  factory-chimneys,  lay  beneath 
its  faint  haze  of  smoke,  below.  Beyond  it, 
his  own  wide  vale  and  blue  hills  met  the 
horizon  line. 

On  the  hither  side,  the  hill  dropped  to 
fields  and  lines  of  willows,  the  green  out- 
skirts of  the  town.  A  cluster  of  gray 
buildings,  irregularly  roofed  with  a  deli- 
cate mingling  of  brown  thatch  and  old, 
mellow,  red  tiles,  stood  back  from  the 
broad  road.  A  golden  sun  bathed  the 
place  in  the  mellow  peace  of  his  sinking; 
warm  upon  gabled  gateway  and  quaint, 
hooded  bell-turret  and  long  lines  of  small, 
twinkling  window-panes.  Beyond,  the 
road  ran  on,  rising  over  a  long,  high-shoul- 
dered ancient  bridge,  to  the  gray  and  misty 
town. 

The  boy  on  the  hill  knew  that  he  looked 


The  Dead  Hand  63 

at  his  home-to-be,  home  in  a  new  and  un- 
known fashion,  yet  in  truth  and  already  his 
spirit's  home.  It  had  not  yet  struck  him 
to  be  frightened  of  a  new  life  or  unrealized 
comrades.  An  unconscious  courage  came 
to  him  with  his  cottage  blood.  One  thing 
only  mattered.  He  was  going  to  "get 
learning. ' '  The  heart  within  him  swelled : 
as  he  felt  and  felt,  with  some  part  of  him 
whose  full  use  he  did  not  yet  know,  after 
a  new,  mysterious  glory  of  life.  Brough- 
ton  Priors,  Emily,  the  cottage  just  over  the 
hill,  were  worlds  away;  himself  suddenly 
years  older.  We  are  at  our  youngest  with 
our  mother.  And  he  knew  not  yet  the  sav- 
ing truth  that  no  one  is  ever  the  same  age 
all  over  him. 

From  the  quiet  place  a  musical,  quaver- 
ing clock  chimed  half-past  four.  David 
went  gravely  down  the  hill  towards  his 
fate.  The  little  wicket  in  the  large  door 
opened.  A  solid  man  in  porter's  livery, 


64  Bedesman  4 

red-badged  on  the  sleeve,  let  Kim  pass  in. 
The  man  looked  the  boy  over  with  an  ex- 
perienced eye. 

"Which '11  you  be?" 

11  David  Bold." 

"Any  of  that  yours?" 

David  looked  at  a  miscellaneous  pile  of 
luggage  in  the  opposite  corner,  and  picked 
out  Phyllis  Fielder's  hair-trunk  as  in  a 
dream. 

"I  '11  give  you  a  hand  with  it  presently. 
You  can  come  along  in  the  lodge, now  and 
write  your  name.  Your  things  is  there." 

Wondering  what  they  might  be,  David 
followed  into  a  warm,  square  little  room 
with  a  small  iron  door  high  up  in  the  wall. 
On  a  desk  a  large  leather-bound  book  stood 
open ;  the  long  yellow  page  was  headed : 

"Sir  Humphrey  Nicholas'  School  and 
Bede-House.  Roll  of  Foundation  Schol- 
ars." 

"Your  name  there;  age  here;  father's 


The  Dead  Hand  65 

name  and  address  here.  Try  the  pen  first. 
Can  you  spell  it  all?" 

David  replied,  with  inward  offense.  He 
had  always  known  how  to  spell:  but  he 
observed  that  the  last  boy  had  written 
' '  Edward ' '  with  three  d  's.  The  solemn  in- 
diting in  round  text  of  his  own  descrip- 
tion brought  him  a  sense  of  gravity  and 
fate. 

The  porter  took  an  object  from  a  chair- 
back  and  held  it  up  smiling.  A  long  gar- 
ment of  black  serge,  the  shape  and  like 
of  which  David  never  had  beheld. 

"  'T  is  your  gown,"  he  answered  the 
astonished  eyes.  "You  haves  it  on  to  go 
in  to  the  Master.  Slip  into  it.  I  reckon 
it 's  a  bit  long." 

The  strange  feel  of  deep  folds  about  his 
legs  made  David  but  half  conscious  of  the 
odd,  flat  cap  that  his  guide  thrust  into  his 
hand.  "You  bring  'em  back  here,  and 
fetch  'em  again  ten  minutes  to  eight ;  after 


66  Bedesman  4 

that  you  goes  on  wearing  'em.  Come  along 
to  the  study ;  put  your  cap  on. ' ' 

"David  Bold,  sir,"  the  porter  an- 
nounced, throwing  open  the  door  beyond 
gateway  and  dim  hall. 

David  was  too  much  absorbed  in  his 
clothes  to  have  thought  what  he  would  see. 
The  low  window  of  a  pleasant  room  lined 
with  pale  blue  wainscot  stood  open  to  the 
bowling-green;  a  young,  upright  woman 
was  pouring  out  tea  for  the  Master,  who 
lounged  smoking  in  an  arm-chair. 

"All!    Come  in,  boy.     Cap  fit?" 

"Yes,  to  be  sure,"  said  the  lady,  looking 
at  David  with  eyes  that  might  have  been 
embarrassing,  had  not  the  mirror  over  the 
mantel  seized  his  own. 

"  'T  is  never  I!"  He  was  unconscious 
that  any  one  heard. 

The  long  black  lines  that  fell  to  his  feet 
bore  a  broad  edge  of  red;  the  cap  a  red 
tassel ;  his  left  breast  a  square  brass  badge 


The  Dead  Hand  67 

repeating  the  Holbein  stamp,  surmounted 
by  a  large  red  B  and  a  figure  of  4. 

"What  's  that  for,  please ?"  cried  the 
quick  childish  voice. 

"Bedesman  Four:  that  number  is  on 
your  room.  The  gentleman  on  the  badge 
is  your  Founder." 

"For  whose  soul,"  said  the  lady,  in  her 
deep  voice,  "you  are  ever  bound  to  pray." 

* l  Does  he  live  here  ? ' '  said  David  eagerly. 
She  only  smiled. 

"Shall  he  have  a  piece  of  cake,  Frank?" 

"I  think  he  'd  better  wait  for  his  own 
tea.  Going,  Dolly?"  He  crossed  to  open 
a  glass  door  beyond  the  window.  "I  '11 
come  over  after  supper,  if  I  can. ' ' 

"A  picture  of  a  child,"  his  sister  said, 
too  low  for  David's  ears. 

The  Master,  coming  back,  glanced  at  the 
clock.  "You  and  I  will  go  and  see  your 
room.  At  school  prayers  you  '11  be  for- 
mally admitted.  After  that,  come  to  this 


68  Bedesman  4 

door  and  knock,  and  we  '11  have  a  chat." 

Through  the  still  open  garden  door  they 
reached  another  creeper-hung  entrance, 
and  a  flight  of  stairs  with  black  broad  ban- 
isters, scratched  with  many  names. 

"Here  you  are." 

They  stood  in  a  low  chamber,  whose  lat- 
ticed window  filled  the  length  of  one  wall. 
The  floor  was  bare ;  the  room  provided  with 
a  row  of  pegs,  a  gas-jet,  three  shelves,  a 
worn  table  on  heavy  black  legs,  and  two 
high-backed  wooden  chairs.  An  odd  piece 
of  furniture  between  a  school  desk  and  a 
chest  of  drawers  stood  across  the  open 
chimney.  The  small  place,  black-wain  scot- 
ted  more  than  half  way  up,  gave  a  curious 
impression  of  space.  A  coat  of  arms  in 
faded  reds  and  blues  was  blazoned  above 
the  hearth.  A  late-blowing  rose  thrust 
two  creamy  blooms  in  at  the  window. 

"This  is  your  own  place,  where  you  do 
your  work  out  of  school:  you  can  ask  fel- 


The  Dead  Hand  69 

lows  in,  within  rules.  Here  's  your  bed," 
said  the  Master,  pushing  back  a  sliding 
panel  in  the  wall;  "you  wash  in  the  lava- 
tory off  the  stairs.  You  wear  your  cap  to 
go  into  the  town,  about  the  place  here  only 
your  gown.  You  *ve  three  neighbors,  Mar- 
tin, Scraggs,  and  Willis :  four  down  below. 
You  ?re  the  eight  Bedesmen,  who  come  in 
by  Trustees'  nomination;  this  is  the  old 
Bede-house.  Through  that  passage-door, 
see,  the  other  foundationers  live." 

David  nodded.  He  was  not  in  the  least 
interested  in  the  other  foundationers. 

The  Master  departed  with  a  kindly  nod. 

Left  alone,  half  of  David  went  out  of  the 
window.  The  bowling-green  lay  enclosed 
by  a  quadrangle  of  irregular  buildings,  the 
hooded  bell-turret  rising  from  a  tiled  roof 
at  one  end :  the  other  closed  by  a  tall  close- 
clipped  yew  hedge.  Opposite  him,  where 
other  roofs  dropped  to  a  second  and 
smaller  gateway,  he  could  see  fields  and 


70  Bedesman  4 

willows ;  between  them  a  steel-blue  glimpse 
of  river  reflecting  a  crimson  sun.  The 
place  lay  empty,  and  all  the  view  seemed 
his  own,  till  approaching  voices  made  him 
withdraw  within  his  own  domain,  which  in- 
stantly took  possession  of  him.  At  last  a 
steady,  rapid  bell  began  to  ring  and  he  ran 
down.  Following  the  little  troop  of  boys 
traveling  towards  the  building  under  the 
bell-turret,  he  found  himself  standing  at  a 
short  table  across  two  long  ones,  with  six 
gowned  figures  at  whom  he  did  not  venture 
to  look.  Somebody  said  something  sono- 
rous and  incomprehensible;  a  loud  clatter 
of  cups  and  voices  began.  David  found 
himself  hungry  enough:  but  the  unknown 
noise  confounded  him;  he  shivered:  the 
scene  was  utterly  strange;  he  began  to 
understand  that  he  was  one  of  fifty,  and 
scarcely  found  courage  to  look  up  till  a  dig 
in  the  left  side  caused  him  to  start  round. 
"Hullo,  Four,  are  you  a  deafy? 


The  Dead  Hand  71 

What  's  your  name  f ' '  The  head  above  the 
far  from  clean  gown  was  sandy  and  rubi- 
cund: the  amused  eyes  not  unfriendly. 
David  drew  breath.  It  was  only  another 
boy. 

"I  can't  but  half  hear  what  you  're  say- 
ing. Bold  's  my  name."  He  lived  to 
thank  such  guardian  powers  as  suppressed 
the  David. 

"I  'm  Two:  next  door  to  you.  I  'm  a 
bird-stuffer  and  I  play  the  cornet.'* 

"Why  shouldn't  you?"  said  David,  see- 
ing an  answer  was  expected. 

"Three  has  got  the  measles;  won't  be 
back  for  a  fortnight,  the  ass." 

A  general  rising  and  dispersal  broke  off 
these  enlightening  details.  The  neighbor 
linked  arms  with  one  opposite,  observing: 
"Well,  Toads,  how  's  your  old  self  I"  and 
David  regained  his  room  with  satisfaction. 

At  ten  minutes  to  eight  o'clock  when 
Granny  Fielder's  trunk,  empty,  had  been 


72  Bedesman  4 

carried  to  the  box-room,  the  same  bell  rang. 
The  same  hall  was  bright  with  lights,  the 
half -hundred  boys  ranged  along  the  walls. 
The  porter  bearing  David's  gown  and  cap 
stood  beside  him  at  the  end  of  the  row  of 
Bedesmen.  A  homelike  evening  hymn 
brought  a  lump  into  the  new  boy's  throat; 
but  the  day's  Psalms  were  followed  by 
prayers,  whose  curious  language  stirred 
his  imagination.  Then  the  porter  mo- 
tioned him  to  stand  forward  in  the  midst. 
The  gowned  Master  on  the  platform  ad- 
dressed him  by  name,  filling  him  with  an 
instant's  thrill  of  terror.  He  had  read 
most  of  what  followed  on  a  soiled  square 
card,  taken  from  a  nail  on  the  lodge  wall 
and  still  held  tight  in  both  hands ;  but  it  all 
sounded  quite  new. 

"David  Bold,— 

"Sir  Humphrey  Nicholas  of  good  mem- 
ory directeth  for  his  honor  and  credit  that 
his  Bedesmen  and  Scholars  be  of  honest 


The  Dead  Hand  73 

and  virtuous  conversation,  that  they  haunt 
not  taverns,  neither  play  at  unlawful  games 
of  cock-fighting,  cards,  nor  dice-tables, 
neither  carry  any  weapon  invasive  to  fight 
nor  brawl  withal :  and  that  the  Scholars  be 
submiss  and  obedient  to  the  Master  in  all 
things  touching  good  manners  and  learn- 
ing. All  this  wilt  thou  observe  and 
keep?" 

David  looked  Mr.  Fletcher  full  in  the 
face. 

"All  this,"  said  a  clear,  rustic,  childish 
voice,  '  *  I  will  obser-rve  and  keep. ' ' 

Then  the  Master,  having  clad  the  neo- 
phyte in  gown  and  cap,  bade  him, 

"Kneel  thee  down." 

"  Admitto  te," — the  strong  male  voice 
went  on.  The  boy,  gripping  his  card,  fol- 
lowed in  the  English  parallel  column  to  the 
end  of  the  "Dominus  custodial."  He  had 
forgotten  the  public  place,  even  the  watch- 
ing boys.  His  eyes  swam.  He  did  not 


74  Bedesman  4 

understand  the  still,  solemn  elation  that 
thrilled  him.  But  it  is  not  definite  under- 
standings that  feed  the  soul. 

When  he  reached  the  study-door,  the 
place  was  full  of  boys  hand-shaking,  but 
the  Master  cried,  "Come  in,  Bold,"  and 
presently,  the  room  having  cleared,  the  boy 
found  himself  sunk  in  a  deep  chair  by  the 
empty  grate. 

"Like  it,  eh!"  the  Master  asked  with  a 
whimsical  smile. 

"I  likes  it  very  well,  please,  sir,"  said 
David  squarely,  with  eager  eyes. 

"You  '11  like  it  better  to-morrow  when 
games  begin — " 

David's  face  clouded  for  an  instant.  He 
spoke  with  a  touch  of  scorn. 

"I  do  want  to  get  learning.  I  can  play 
about  between  times." 

The  Master  smiled  again. 

"In  a  week's  time  you  '11  think  games 
are  work,  too.  We  are  n't  all  head,  like  the 


The  Dead  Hand  75 

turnips.  We  're  legs,  and  arms.  Got  any 
fists,  by  the  way?" 

David  laughed  out  and  held  them  up. 
He  was  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  this  gen- 
tleman, whose  humor  he  relished.  The 
'jaded  schoolmaster  mind'  acutely  relished 
him.  Not  often  did  Frank  Fletcher  meet 
the  child  still  in  the  boy. 

"If  any  one  plagues  you,"  he  observed 
gravely,  "it  's  cheaper  in  the  end  to  use 
those  at  once." 

For  an  instant  David  looked  sharply  ter- 
rified. Then  memories  of  one  Bill  Bobbins 
relieved  his  mind.  "All  right,  sir,"  he 
observed,  with  an  odd  dryness. 

"So.  You '11  do.  Now  let 's  talk  about 
your  books." 

"Martin,"  Mr.  Fletcher  put  his  head  out 
of  the  study,  and  captured  the  sandy-haired 
bird-stuffer.  "Your  new  Bedesman  's  a 
country  lad  and  innocent.  Keep  an  eye  on 
him,  eh?  when  they  begin  to  find  it  out." 


76  Bedesman  4 

The  gas  went  out  suddenly  as  the  clock 
struck.  A  broad,  oblique  streak  of  moon- 
light leaped  into  sight  across  the  dark 
boards.  Gradually  silence  fell.  The  low 
wind  whispered  in  the  creeper.  The  voice 
of  an  owl  came  from  the  fields  where  the 
river  ran. 

David  Bold  lay  on  his  back  in  the  box- 
bed,  where  generations  of  Bedesmen,  old 
and  then  young,  had  lain  before  him. 

As  the  quiet  chime  spoke  again,  his  lids 
began  to  fall. 

"Pray  God  take  care  of  me  all  night," 
murmured  Esther  Bold's  son. 

He  turned  on  his  side,  but  for  a  long 
while  was  awake  for  sheer  happiness ;  and 
the  keen  relish  of  a  new  world,  and  of  the 
future. 

Over  the  hill  at  Broughton  Priors,  a  lit- 
tle girl  cried  herself  to  sleep.  Showers 
come  on  at  nightfall. 


V 

DAVID  always  remembered  with  an 
odd  distinctness  the  Friday  morning 
in  the  third  week  of  school  when  he  seemed 
to  wake  from  a  wild  and  exciting  dream, — 
once  more  a  normal,  though  a  different, 
human  being.  Till  then  he  had  constantly 
pursued  his  life  and  never  caught  it  up. 

At  a  queer,  compact  desk  in  a  sunny 
class-room,  he  was  ending  an  elementary 
Latin  exercise  with  a  fierce  and  joyful  ap- 
plication of  blotting-paper.  The  peasant 
mind  does  not  take  kindly  to  new  lan- 
guages. It  has  too  limited  a  hold  on  that 
single  one  which  it  calls  its  own.  The 
room  had  emptied  three  minutes  back,  but 
David  waited  by  the  master's  desk.  He 
liked  the  calm,  unfathomable  remarks  of 

77 


78  Bedesman  4 

the  small,  misshapen  man  who  looked  at 
his  exercise. 

"You  don't  care  for  Latin,  Bold — 
wouldn't  have  written  that — or  that. 
You  're  not  careless." 

"By  times  I  am,  sir,  when  I  wants  to  get 
done. ' ' 

"No.  To  get  to  something  else.  ('I 
wants'  is  a  false  concord.)  A  whole  man 
doesn't  make  favorites  of  his  subjects. 
You  're  learning  to  live,  not  to  scrap  up 
knowledge. ' ' 

"You  can't  help  living,"  came  with  a 
touch  of  scorn  from  David's  deep  puzzle- 
ment, "you  can  help  learning.  The  more 
part  of  them  does." 

"I  can't  contradict  you."  Mr.  Tithe- 
ridge  hitched  his  gown  on  to  his  queer  high 
shoulder.  "You  '11  come  to  see  many 
things,  Bold,  unless  you  shut  your  nose 
inside  a  book, — then  you  '11  just  see  cob- 
webs. ' ' 


The  Dead  Hand  79 

Mr.  Titheridge  liked  this  rustic  boy,  who 
was  n't  afraid  of  him;  and  limping  off  on 
his  tall-soled  left  boot,  left  his  pupil  to  the 
task  of  digestion.  It  was  an  hard  saying: 
he  could  not  yet  hear  it.  Yet  it  waked  him 
up :  he  suddenly  knew  he  had  to  take  hold 
on  himself,  to  face  the  racing  current. 
For  a  sharp,  illuminant  instant,  he  won- 
dered if  himself  were  the  one  thing  worth 
taking  hold  on.  Then,  passing  out  into  the 
kind  sunshine,  he  relinquished  what  he 
thought  a  conceited  idea.  The  chimes 
were  announcing  noon.  The  scurry  of  liv- 
ing by  unfamiliar,  inexorable  hours,  a  deep 
countryman  shyness,  and  the  joys  of  new 
learning  had  hitherto  caused  David's  hu- 
man surroundings  to  be  as  shadows :  Mar- 
tin with  his  blaring  trumpet ;  the  wise  face 
of  little  Botley  in  the  next  desk,  piloting 
one  through  early  whirlpools;  a  day-boy, 
with  a  tall,  small  head, — all  were  as  figures 
seen  in  the  twilight.  To-day,  facts  were 


8o  Bedesman  4 

round  him :  the  border  dahlias  flamed  with 
color:  figures  were  individuals.  Espe- 
cially he  realized  the  slim,  blue-clad  person 
of  Miss  Fletcher  crossing  the  green,  her 
arms  full  of  books — which  Flora,  her 
brother's  growing  St.  Bernard,  a  large  and 
slobbering  infant  anxious  to  lick  her  face, 
sent  on  to  the  grass  in  a  cascade. 

"Let  I  have  her,  miss,"  cried  David, 
startled  out  of  a  growing  regard  for  his 
pronouns. 

"Oh,  thank  you:  but  don't  try  to  pick  up 
the  books  too,"  as  the  teething  Flora,  go- 
ing about  seeking  what  she  might  devour, 
struggled  towards  a  bound  Browning. 

"You're  Bold,  aren't  you!"  Miss 
Fletcher  said.  Flora  disposed  of,  they 
were  seeking  each  book's  gap  in  the  library 
shelves  together.  "Will  you  come  to  tea 
with  me  on  Sunday  at  five?  I  often  have 
boys  then." 

"Thank  you  kindly,  miss,"  said  David, 


The  Dead  Hand  81 

slightly  alarmed.  In  his  former  dream,  he 
had  known  she  lived  across  the  green,  and 
that  certain  girlish  figures,  thronging  parts 
of  the  playing-fields  in  dark  blue  skirts  and 
scarlet  sashes,  represented  a  department 
over  which  she  presided. 

On  Sunday,  mindful  of  Mother,  he 
brushed  his  gown,  removed  some  layers  of 
ink-stain  from  his  fingers  and  crossed  to 
the  gateway  opposite  his  window.  On  the 
bright  strip  of  garden,  before  a  harmoni- 
ous modern  building  adjoining  the  old,  a 
graceful  bay  window  looked,  showing  a 
white  table  within.  Miss  Fletcher's  voice 
cried,  "This  way!" 

In  a  charming  room,  sparsely  but  dain- 
tily furnished,  four  girls  in  fresh  Sunday 
frocks  were  gathered,  with  a  couple  of 
foundationers  and  the  tall  day-boy. 

David's  home  eyes  dwelt  with  satisfac- 
tion on  the  girls;  at  sight  of  other  boys  a 
paralyzing  shyness  gripped  him. 


82  Bedesman  4 

A  brown-eyed  maiden  called  Bridget 
supplied  him  with  beautiful  cakes  and 
somewhat  serious  conversation,  but  looked 
as  if  she  could  laugh.  Being  still  quite  a 
natural  person,  David  was  neither  awkward 
nor  wanting  in  an  archaic  code  of  manners 
descended  from  Granny  Fielder.  But  she 
found  him  extremely  bashful  and  his 
country  accents  strange,  though  his  young, 
striking  head  gave  her  pleasure.  After 
tea,  a  rather  serious  feast, 

"The  Mistress  has  just  got  this  lovely 
book,"  said  Bridget  producing  a  fascinat- 
ing reprint  of  Mallory. 

Despite  the  approach  of  the  tall  day-boy, 
her  brother,  the  tongue  of  Bedesman  4 
was  loosed  by  the  first  grave  and  glowing 
picture.  His  bright  eyes  met  Bridget's: 
his  grammar  fled  to  the  four  winds.  When 
at  the  sound  of  a  bell,  he  had  gone  reluctant 
away,  and  brother  and  sister  turned  home- 
wards, Bridget  opined: 


The  Dead  Hand  83 

"That  country  boy  rs  very  intelligent; 
and  not  a  bit  like  the  town  ones.  He  's  got 
all  his  knowledge  in  different  places/' 

"You  're  awfully  sharp  about  a  chap," 
said  Ned  approvingly  from  the  air  above 
her. 

When  they  met  again,  David  no  longer 
dwelt  with  his  neighbors  as  though  they 
existed  not:  but  had  found  a  tardy  grati- 
tude for  Botley,  and  drawn  dismal  howls 
from  the  cornet.  From  a  righteous  battle 
with  one  Briggs,  large  and  lump-headed, 
he  emerged, — thanks  to  William  Bold's 
quarryman  arms, — bruised,  but  purged  of 
fears. 

On  a  golden  late  October  Saturday, 
"day-boys'  holiday"  and  the  week's  jewel, 
the  fields  called  to  him ;  and  half -past  three 
found  him  consuming  partially  ripe  cob- 
nuts on  a  stile  near  the  river. 

Descending  to  let  a  couple  cross,  he  was 
face  to  face  with  Ned  and  Bridget. 


84  Bedesman  4 

" Which  way  are  you  going?" 

"I  don't  but  half  know." 

"Come  with  us  round  Frimley  Wood," 
the  girl  said. 

She  wore  a  white  blouse,  a  skirt  and 
knitted  cap  of  golden  brown,  the  color  of 
her  eyes,  and  went  on  with  rapid,  quiet 
steps  beside  her  brother,  whose  small, 
clever  head  was  perched,  above  his  low 
flannel  collar,  on  an  elongated  throat.  His 
tall  legs  traveled  somewhat  loosely.  Bur- 
ton was  no  good  at  games. 

They  went  on  together, — the  first  squir- 
rel chased  and  held  by  David  that  Bridget 
might  study  his  wise,  alarmed  countenance, 
making  them  fast  friends.  Burton  had  al- 
ways been  interesting,  but  Bridget  had  the 
unique  charm  of  the  comrade-woman. 

"I  did  n't  know  there  'd  be  girls,"  David 
said,  "my  sister  'd  give  her  eyes  to  come 
for  all  she  is  n't  sharp." 

"We  're  foundationers,  too,"  said  Brid- 


The  Dead  Hand  85 

get  proudly,  "Sir  Humphrey  left  six 
pounds  a  year  for  the  Mistress,  and  a  pair 
of  white  wool  stockings  at  Christmas  for 
each  girl,  at  one  shilling  per  pair.  We  get 
the  shilling!  The  Mistress  thinks  he  was 
ever  so  much  before  his  age.  She  's  all  for 
co-education. ' ' 

"What's  that!" 

"Boys  and  girls  together.  She  says  she 
could  claim  to-morrow  to  share  your  class- 
rooms and  work  together.  But  she  and 
the  Master  think  we  'd  keep  each  other 
back;  through  not  needing  things  in  the 
same  shapes.  I  wonder  if  they  're  right. 
I  get  along  twice  as  fast  when  I  work  with 
Ned." 

David  reflected.  "I  don't  want  the 
Founder  to  be — kind  of  a  prophet,"  he 
said,  not  knowing  what  words  were  coming 
till  they  came,  "it  makes  him — not  real- 
like." 

Bridget  looked  at  him  curiously. 


86  Bedesman  4 

''What  's  your  best  subject?" 

"History,"  said  David  promptly. 

She  nodded.  "So  's  mine.  The  Mis- 
tress is  running  me  for  Oxford  scholar- 
ships. I  'm  in  luck,  being  under  her." 

' '  So  am  I ;  the  Professor  sent  me.  Can 
girls  go  to  Oxford?" 

"You  really  might  have  heard  of  wom- 
en's colleges.  Dad's  keen  about  them. 
You  know  who  he  is?  The  architect  that 
designed  the  new  class-rooms.  Grand- 
father did  that  first  awfully  good  bit,  in 
'85,  and  Dad  has  developed  the  idea." 

"You  live  here,  then?" 

"In  Church  Square,  for  generations. 
Ned,  which  way  are  we  going  home?"  (Ned 
jerked  his  long  neck  towards  the  right.) — 
"Haven't  you  seen  the  chapel,  St.  Mar- 
garet's, where  the  Founder  's  buried — 
where  we  go  to  church  on  Founder's  day? 
You  Bedesmen  should,"  the  girl  said  seri- 
ously; she  found  in  her  an  odd  motherli- 


The  Dead  Hand  87 

ness  for  this  bright-eyed  creature,  short  of 
the  right  words  yet  full  of  frank  curiosity. 

The  wood-path  led  to  a  green  meadow, 
where,  retired  and  overhung  by  golden 
trees,  a  small,  calm,  gray  building  faced 
them.  Its  old  greenish  bell  filled  a  little 
round-headed  archway.  The  nail-studded 
door's  flat,  iron  handle-ring  lifted  a  large, 
worn,  wooden  bolt.  Within,  a  scent  as  of 
a  still  place,  ancient  and  faintly  damp, 
rested  on  the  quiet  air.  There  were  no 
seats,  save  a  few  stacks  of  rush-bottomed 
chairs  in  a  corner.  The  irregular  floor 
seemed  made  of  worn,  inscribed  stones. 
Behind  the  low  altar,  hung  with  a  breadth 
of  dim  brocade,  and  bearing  flowers,  one 
realized  a  draped  half- wall;  the  east  wall 
stood  beyond  a  deep  gap.  Its  high,  green- 
ish window  showed  figures  in  worn  color- 
ing, hard  to  make  out. 

Bridget  touched  a  David  silent  and  at 
gaze ;  who,  following  her  to  a  wrought-iron 


88  Bedesman  4 

wicket,  reached  the  space  beyond  the 
shrine.  South  of  the  east  window,  a  cano- 
pied table-tomb  rose  from  floor  to  barrel- 
roof.  The  sculptured  knight  wore  a  doc- 
tor's gown,  his  feet  upon  a  couchant  mas- 
tiff; his  quiet  lady's  gentle  and  youthful 
head,  in  a  close  coif,  pointed  and  pearl- 
bordered,  rested  like  his  on  a  fringed  pil- 
low. To  the  boy's  young  eyes  they 
seemed  to  lie  very  still. 

"Four  daughters  and  three  sons;  they 
were  the  second  wife's."  Bridget  spoke 
low,  pointing  to  the  mounting  and  meeting 
rows  of  small  gowned  figures  below.  ' '  See 
the  dead  baby  up  in  the  sky.  She  died 
when  he  was  born, — the  year  we  were 
founded.  I  'm  afraid  he  's  rather  like  a 
caterpillar."  But  David  scarcely  smiled. 

'  *  Bid, ' '  said  Ned 's  voice, '  *  come  here.  I 
don't  believe  Dad  looked  at  this  corbel." 

When  they  were  out  in  the  sunshine 
again,  David  said: 


The  Dead  Hand  89 

"Be  the  Statutes  writ  down?"  and  then 
flushed  at  his  grammar. 

"To  be  sure.  The  Master  's  got  them, 
and  they  're  in  a  book  of  Dad's,  too.  Of 
course,  we  can't  keep  them  all  nowa- 
days.'* 

"No,"  said  David,  slowly.  "They 
did  n't  take  my  knife  from  me.  I  offered 
the  Master,  for  all  'twas  my  Granfer's. 
Nor  I  never  seen  a  dice-table." 

"See,  you  've  got  till  six.  Come  home 
to  tea,  and  you  could  see  the  book." 

The  factory-quarter  of  Spetterton  lay  to 
the  north-east.  The  Parish  Church  with 
its  low  tower,  retired  in  a  wide  graveyard, 
filled  one  side  of  the  deep,  irregular 
square,  Flint's  Almshouse  another.  The 
Burton's  house  was  white  and  solid;  three 
steps  rose  from  the  street  to  the  serious 
door  sheltered  by  a  round  stone  projection. 
The  windows  were  tall,  and  heavily 
framed.  The  long,  low,  cozy  room  at  the 


90  Bedesman  4 

back  had  three,  with  deep  seats  looking  on 
a  walled  garden.  The  carpet  was  worn; 
all  the  furniture  old  and  much  of  it  quaint ; 
the  table  strewn  with  books  and  parts  of  a 
blue  linen  blouse  that  Bridget  was  making 
with  a  hand  sewing-machine.  Under  one 
window  a  desk  had  a  great  book  open  upon 
it,  from  which  some  one  was  minutely  copy- 
ing an  architectural  drawing — apparently 
Ned,  who  sat  down  to  it  instantly.  The 
girl  rang  and  an  elderly  woman  in  spotless 
apron  but  no  cap,  with  a  thimble  on  her 
finger,  appeared. 

"Tea,  is  it?  Dear,  Miss  Bridget, 
don't  fling  your  cap  down  there;  and  clear 
up  them  pieces,  else  you  '11  lose  'em.  The 
Master  's  just  come  in." 

'  *  All  right,  old  Nan.  Bring  some  honey- 
comb, bless  you.  This  is  Mr.  Bold.  I  'm 
going  for  Dad. ' ' 

Her  chattering  voice  came  back  up  the 
stairs,  and  she  came  in  hugging  the  arm  of 


The  Dead  Hand  91 

a  gray-headed  man  in  riding-breeches.  It 
transpired  that  he  had  been  visiting 
Broughton  Priors  Church,  in  connection 
with  a  new  vestry;  and  David's  eager  eyes 
brought  questions  and  frank  replies.  The 
four  sat  round  a  generous  table,  Bridget 
pouring  out  tea.  Father  and  children 
bandied  family  jokes,  but  the  guest  never 
felt  "out  of  it";  it  seemed  to  him  he  had 
never  seen  three  people  so  fond  of  one  an- 
other. The  one  drawback  was  that  he 
could  not  understand  all  they  said.  He 
liked  them  as  he  liked  no  one  save  the  Pro- 
fessor; as  though  he  were  of  one  world 
with  them.  That  he  was  for  the  first  time 
in  a  'gentleman's'  house  as  an  equal  did 
not  matter.  When  at  half -past  five,  Brid- 
get told  him  frankly  that  he  ought  to  go, 
his  face  fell:  he  wanted  a  thing  so  much 
that  the  girl  saw. 

"Dad,  may  he  see  that  book  with  the 
Statutes  in  it?" 


92  Bedesman  4 

David 's  eyes  shone:  but  he  cast  a  dis- 
traught glance  at  the  clock. 

"Can  you  take  care  of  a  book?"  Mr. 
Burton  smiled. 

"I  '11  strive  to,"  the  boy  said  earnestly. 
It  was  his  mother's  word. 

"  And  I  woll  that  the  sayde  Freest  of  my 
Chantry  be  a  discrete  man  and  able  of 
connyng  to  teache  Gramer:  And  I  woll 
that  he  sing  his  Masse  and  say  his  other 
Divyne  Service  at  the  aulter  of  my  Chapell 
of  St.  Margarett  in  ye  Parishe  of  Compton 
and  to  pray  specially  for  the  soules,  etc. 
And  I  woll  that  he  kepe  a  Gramer  School  in 
the  faier  Howse  therto  by  me  ordained  and 
that  he  frely  without  any  wages  or  salarye 
except  only  my  Salarye  hereunder  speci- 
fied shall  teche  all  maner  persons  children 
unto  the  tyme  that  they  be  convenably  in- 
strut  in  Gramer  by  hym  after  their  capaci- 
teys  that  God  woll  geve  them :  And  I  woll 


The  Dead  Hand  93 

that  the  same  connyng  and  discrete  Freest, 
with  all  the  sayd  children  his  scolers  and 
with  myn  eight  Bedesmen,  shall  one  day  in 
every  weke  that  is  upon  Saturday  come 
into  the  sayd  Chapell,  unto  the  place  of  the 
grave  ther  where  the  bodyes  of  my  wyff 
Dame  Margarett  and  my  Fader  and  my 
Mother  lyen  buryed  and  ther  say  togiders 
the  Psalm  of  De  Profundis,  with  the  versi- 
cles  and  colletts  thereto  accustomed  after 
Salisbury  use,  and  pray  specially  for  the 
soule  of  my  so  dear  wyf  and  for  my  soule 
and  the  soules  of  my  Fader  and  Mother 
and  for  all  Christen  Soules:  And  once  a 
year  that  is  on  St.  Margarett 's  Day  in  ye 
afternoon  to  say  the  Dirigay  and  Comand- 
asonay — " 

David  lifted  his  chin  from  his  hollowed 
palms,  and,  sighing,  rubbed  his  hands  over 
his  ears.  What  on  earth  was  the  Comand- 
asonayf 

The  shadows  lengthened  and  deepened 


94  Bedesman  4 

in  the  little  wainscotted  Bedesman's  cham- 
ber; and  with  them  the  new  dream  gath- 
ered closer  round,  the  dream  that  was  calm 
and  real,  no  one's  made-up  tale,  but  true. 
He  gazed  up  at  the  faint  blazoning  above 
the  hearth.  As  he  bent  his  head  again  the 
fusty  scent  of  the  old  book  came  up,  excit- 
ing him  to  the  depths  of  his  soul  like  some 
new  wine. 

"And  the  same  connyng  Freest  shall 
teche  the  children  his  Scholers  to  say  Grace 
as  well  at  dinner  as  at  supper  also  he  shall 
teche  them  good  maners  and  specially  to 
refrain  from  lieing  to  honoure  their  par- 
ents and  serve  God  devowtely  in  hys 
Churche.  And  every  Scholar  shall  be  at 
the  saide  School  in  the  mornynge  by  seven 
of  the  Clocke  and  at  the  tyme  of  his  firste 
admyting  and  writing  of  his  name  in  the 
boke  of  Scolers — " 

Slowly  the  gentle  dusk  was  creeping  be- 
tween the  eager  eyes  and  the  old  blunt 


The  Dead  Hand  95 

print,  the  queer  spellings.  Reluctant,  as 
one  breaking  a  spell,  David  rose  to  kindle 
his  gas.  With  the  starting  jet,  the  dark 
lines  of  wainscot  and  the  books  and  the 
gown  upon  the  door  peg  leaped  to  sight. 
His  eyes  clung  to  the  straight-hanging  red- 
bordered  garment.  His  soul  grew  aware, 
as  though  some  dawning  light  broadened 
and  glowed.  That  firm,  un-stirring  hand, 
that  relaxed  not,  had  first  taken  hold  in  the 
year  of  grace  1487,  when  America  was 
yet  to  be,  the  quiet  hand  of  a  bearded 
Englishman,  Doctor  of  Laws  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  Oxford:  who  in  a  heart-rending 
hour  desired  that  those  after  him,  living 
truly,  should  also  call  upon  God  for  a  sweet 
soul  gone  hence  and  no  more  seen.  He 
lived  still:  still  his  words  had  power;  still 
his  bounty  gave  to  craving,  eager  souls  the 
jewel  of  learning,  set  in  the  sound  gold  of 
a  fair  tradition. 
Where  did  one  find  the  Psalm  of  De 


g6  Bedesman  4 

Profundis?  Bridget  would  know — To- 
morrow was  Sunday.  David  had  dropped 
back  into  his  chair.  The  .Past,  most  alive 
of  all  things,  had  gripped  him  again.  For 
this  Bedesman  was  of  his  own  nature  Hers 
for  good.  Till  now  he  had  not  known  it. 
Turning  a  handful  of  leaves,  he  lost  him- 
self among  the  elaborate  provisions  of  the 
pious  and  cleanly  Dean  Colet,  and  of  one 
Peter  Blundell — a  clothier  of  ' '  Tyverton  in 
Devon,"  who,  with  his  love  for  "floores 
well-plancked  with  plancks  of  oke"  and  for 
"faire  greate  chimneys,"  had  apparently 
known  how  to  be  comfortable. 


:T"^VON'T  ee  go  furder 'n  Frankley 
JL/  turning,  my  dear.  Thee  mid  miss 
him." 

"He  '11  be  sooner  'n  that,  Mother." 
The  gate  swung  behind  Emily.  In  her 
round  and  simple  countenance  "large 
mornings  shone." 

Esther  Bold  went  back  to  her  mending. 
But  the  drama  of  her  daughter  lay  at  her 
heart.  Time,  bringing  new  things,  weans 
a  childish  heart  from  the  old.  After  eight 
weeks  Emily  was  still  unweaned.  She  had 
flagged,  drooping  to  a  lonely  look:  "seek- 
ing to"  her  mother,  till  Esther  was 
ashamed  to  rejoice  in  a  new  friendship 
born  of  the  child's  new  pain.  But  the  boy 
— he  was  sure  enough  to  have  traveled  on. 
His  mother's  heart  shook,  there.  She  put 

97 


98  Bedesman  4 

away  her  basket.  It  was  wiser  to  stir 
about,  till  the  two  chattering  voices,  ap- 
proaching on  the  road,  caught  her  back  to 
a  time  that  was  gone.  Her  eyes  swam. 
Then  he  was  in  the  room.  Two  vigorous 
arms  had  her  round  the  neck.  Grown! 
To  be  sure  he  was.  That  was  the  ''good 
living."  And — he  had  a  look — smarter? 
was  it  only  that?  He  looked  round  with 
eager  eyes;  seeing  everything  new. 
''Seems  all  different  somehow,"  he  said 
slowly,  as  Emily's  foot  climbed  the  stair. 

' '  Our  chairs — Mother,  they  're  just  like 
them  in  my  room.  You  did  ought  to  see 
my  room :  't  is  pretty  near  's  big  as  this : 
the  window 's  longer.  There  's  pipes. 
But  't  is  cozier  with  the  fire.  And  't  is — " 

Suddenly  he  nestled  to  her,  and  she  knew 
she  meant  the  heart  of  home:  he  was  al- 
ways a  coaxing  one  from  a  baby.  "Thee 
be  just  the  same,"  he  said  in  her  ear. 

"Thee  mother  don't  change.     She  ain't 


The  Dead  Hand  99 

young  like  thee.    Be  happy  there,  child?" 

"Bare  and  happy.  'T  is  lovely."  A 
slow  smile  broadened.  He  was  still,  warm 
against  her,  staring  at  the  fire. 

"I  'm  getting  learning,"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice,  not  free  from  awe,  "more  every  day. 
Mr.  Titheridge  he  can  teach." 

"Don't  Mr.  Fletcher?" 

"Not  till  you  get  in  the  Sixth.  Master, 
he  rules,  back  of  everything,  so  as  you  feels 
lovely  and  safe.  Mother — " 

"Well?" 

1  *  Our  Founder  were  good  to  us.  Mother 
— do  thee  say  prayers  for — them  that  's 
dead?" 

Esther  Bold  was  brought  up  short.  She 
paused,  seeking  the  deeper  truth. 

"They — be  safe,  my  dear:  not  but  what 
I  often  thinks — on  Mother  and  them. 
Seems  like  Mr.  Eichards  he  holds  with  it, — 
if  'twas  n't  some  o'  them  antics,  like  they 
say  he  haves." 


1OO  Bedesman  4 

'  *  'Cause  Founder  said  to  go  to  my 
lady's  grave.  'T  is  Psalm  130.  I  found 
it  in  the  Prayer-book.  Darner  her  name 
was,  Mother:  like  the  Bolds  and  the  Field- 
ers worked  for,  far-back  times." 

Here  Emily  entered.  As  he  watched  her 
set  the  tea : 

"Sis,  have  a  brown  frock,  your  next; 
'tis  awful  pretty." 

"What  do  thee  know?"  Emily  laughed. 

"I  can  see.  Bridget  she  wears  it  and 
cap  to  match.  The  girls  do  come ;  to  Miss 
Fletcher,  t'other  side.  Bridget's  got  a 
brother  a  day-boy.  I  been  to  tea  there." 

Whoever  Bridget  was,  Emily  did  not 
care  about  her. 

"Mother,  sh'  I  fetch  in  a  bit  more 
wood?"  David  said. 

She  was  so  pleased  that  she  felt 
ashamed.  "Take  off  thee  jacket  first," 
she  answered  calmly. 

Out  at  the  back  door,  the  bright  North 


The  Dead  Hand  101 

wind  fluttered  David's  pink  shirt  sleeves, 
as,  a  village  lad  again,  lie  loaded  Ms  arms 
with  sticks.  Standing  still  for  a  minute, 
he  scented  the  breeze  through  the  fir-trees. 
He  felt l '  queer, ' '  shaken,  as  though  he  were 
not  sure  who  he  was.  Home  had  gathered 
him  to  its  warm  arms ;  but  it  was  i '  differ- 
ent somehow."  It  did  not  mean  all  of 
him :  and  it  had  grown  smaller.  Glancing 
away,  he  saw  the  white  figure  of  his  father 
turning  the  corner.  David  went  in. 
Somehow  he  preferred  to  have  his  jacket 
on  when  Father  came  in.  He  suddenly 
knew  that  part  of  the  "difference"  in 
things  was  in  his  feeling  about  his  father. 
Why?  Mother  was  just  the  same — more 
so. 

At  tea,  he  knew  the  male  eyes  watched 
him.  William  Bold,  who  wished  his  son  to 
"come  up  a  gentleman,"  found  he  did  not 
relish  all  the  signs  that  his  desire  began  to 
be  fulfilled.  His  wife  knew  it.  She  talked 


1O2  Bedesman  4 

to  the  children :  but  the  boy  had  turned  sud- 
denly silent,  almost  shy.  He  went  with 
Emily  to  the  scullery,  to  wash  the  tea 
things.  Sisterly  eyes  knew  he  had  not 
been  at  ease.  Emily  hated  his  correcter 
language,  after  the  old  rough-hewn  speech. 
The  last  cup  put  away,  he  spoke,  and  her 
heart  leaped.  ''Us  '11  have  a  run,  Sis." 
Out  of  the  back  door  and  down  the  slope 
they  scooted,  bare-headed  both,  till  at  the 
stile  they  stopped  for  breath:  leaning 
against  it,  panting,  laughing.  He  pushed 
a  flying  lock  behind  her  ear. 

"Miss  me,  Sis?" 

The  round,  simple  face  quivered. 

' '  Course  I  does. ' '    He  saw  it  all  clearly. 

"See  here," —  he  spoke  quickly,  "when 
I  ?m  on  my  own,  us  '11  live  together,  Sis, 
you  and  me.  You  shall  see  to  the  house, 
and  I  '11  be  studding  and  reading, — writ- 
ing, most  like — "  he  paused  and  his  eyes 
widened. 


The  Dead  Hand  103 

1 '  Thee  '11  get  married  then, ' '  said  Emily 
sedately. 

"I  shan't  want  no  wife,  if  I  got  thee. 
I  wonder — if  I  was  to  write — " 

The  pause  was  long;  Emily's  eyes  grew 
imploring.  He  roused  himself,  looking  to- 
wards the  west.  "We  got  time  to  go  up 
in  the  wood  before  't  is  dark,"  he  said. 

In  the  little  chamber  at  the  top  of  the 
stairs  with  the  three-quarter  door,  where 
his  white  bed  had  received  him  each  night 
since  the  baby  became  the  boy,  where 
the  birds  talked  under  the  thatch  till  you 
fell  asleep,  he  lay  to-night,  wide-eyed,  hear- 
ing Emily's  soft  breaths  beyond  the 
wooden  partition.  He  was  queerly  aware 
of  an  empty  box-bed  in  the  valley  beyond 
the  hill,  where  a  slow  chime  told  the  quar- 
ters. This  little  room  had  a  closed-in  feel- 
ing and  was  cold,  though  he  loved  to  be  in 
it.  The  spotless  sheets  smelt  of  wood 


104  Bedesman  4 

smoke.  Drying-day  had  been  wet.  Over 
the  evening  fire,  a  joke  of  his  father's  had 
loosed  his  tongue  and  there  had  followed 
long,  long  tales,  and  pourings-out.  Now 
how  strange  it  all  looked!  To-morrow — 
back  again,  to  lessons,  to  play,  no  one  there 
aware  of  this  other  world  that  was 
''home,"  himself  deep  in  the  intense  inter- 
ests, the  passionate  "learning" — 

Could  one  really  be  two  people?  He 
was. 

On  Sunday,  after  afternoon  church,  they 
walked  all  together  to  Frankley  turning, 
and  the  three  watched  the  one  over  the 
hill's  brow.  Going  home,  Emily  lagged 
behind. 

"He  be  a  lot  come  on,"  said  William. 

"I  believe,"  his  mother  said,  slowly,  "as 
he  '11  stop  the  same  boy." 

"To  be  sure,  will,"  his  father  said,  not 
without  a  hint  of  puzzlement. 


Book  III 
Denial 


VII 

THERE  came  an  April  morning,  warm 
and  sunny.  Through  Church  Square 
a  quiet  and  cheerful  traffic  rattled  on  its 
way.  "Spetterton's  Grandfather,"  the 
giant  elm,  whose  massy  trunk  was  sur- 
rounded by  irregular  seats;  and  all  the 
churchyard  sycamores  and  limes,  had 
clothed  themselves  in  tender  and  transpar- 
ent greens.  In  the  warm,  walled  garden 
behind  number  17,  a  fragrant  place,  vivid 
colors  flamed  softly. 

The  front  door  and  the  garden  door  op- 
posite it  stood  open;  so  that  a  tall  boy, 
arriving  on  the  top  step  and  glancing 
through,  saw  as  the  center  of  a  glowing, 
spring-like  picture,  a  girl,  trim  and  work- 
manlike in  a  blue  overall,  who  seemed  to  be 
107 


io8  Bedesman  4 

dealing  a  trifle  masterfully  with  an  eld- 
erly, shirt-sleeved  gardener. 

The  boy  walked  coolly  through  the  house, 
and,  smiling,  descended  the  old  curved  gar- 
den steps  and  deposited  at  their  foot  cer- 
tain soundly-tied  paper  parcels.  Then  he 
stood  looking  on.  Yes.  She  was  like  that, 
this  friend  of  his.  As  if  no  one  could  be 
enough  alive !  Hear  her ! 

"No,  Sparks — then  I  must  begin  again. 
The  iris-bed— " 

The  working  man's  quiet  eyes  dwelt  on 
her  with  a  fatherly  smile  and  a  patient  nod. 
Not  till  he  had  retired  with  large  slow  steps 
to  a  far-off  corner  did  Bridget  turn,  and, 
pushing  back  her  sun-bonnet,  realize  the 
new-comer. 

"David!  That's  good!  Why  I  just 
wanted  your  mind  on  the  tulips.  But — 
what  's  that?  not  the  love-in-a-mist  from 
your  mother?" 

"She  tied  it  up  with  some  other  bits  of 


Denial  109 

things.  There  's  a  creeper,  red-flowering, 
my  aunt  sent  her  from  Cornwall :  but  it  's 
a  bit  faddy.  Have  you  got  a  cozy  corner 
to  the  north!  Let  me  undo  it  and  we  '11 
put  them  in.'* 

' '  Your  mother, ' '  said  Bridget,  with  con- 
viction, "must  be  a  jewel.  Oh,  boy !  cut  it ! 
My  knife  's  just  sharpened." 

"She  is,  rather,  but  she  don't  let  you 
cut  string,"  said  the  boy,  with  a  quaint 
gentleness.  "Here 's  the  creeper,  see. 
Where  shall  the  lavender  go  1 " 

Half  an  hour's  busy  work  left  them  rest- 
ing on  the  seat  beside  the  old  pear-tree, 
warm  and  full  of  words. 

"What  have  you  done  with  your  holi- 
days? G-ot  on  with  Froude?  I  rm  half 
way  through  vol.  III." 

1 '  How  a  girl  does  race  at  things !  I  have 
been  going  over  and  over  that  first  chapter. 
I  could  n't  leave  it.  But  now  I  Ve  finished 
vol.  I.  Most  of  the  time  I  Ve  been  out 


HO  Bedesman  4 

of  doors.  I  've  dug  up  our  garden  and  my 
grandmother's:  and  done  a  good  few  other 
things. ' ' 

''Have n't  I  told  you  'a  good  few'  is  bad 
style?  Can't  you  see  it 's  almost  non- 
sense?" 

"Why  not?  Plenty  nonsense  words  are 
rare  good  to  use.  I  find  them  every  day. 
You  take  a  first-rate  book  and  count — " 

"My  blessed  boy,  don't  argue.  I  'm 
merely  taking  an  interest  in  your  English 
style.  Ah — what  are  you  thinking 
about?" 

David  looked  down  between  his  feet,  si- 
lent but  unembarrassed,  though  her  eyes 
dwelt  on  him.  Like  most  of  her  male 
friends — all  her  life  they  were  many — he 
understood  Bridget.  Perhaps,  as  with  one 
Beatrice,  "Adam's  sons  were  her  breth- 
ren." She  was  David's  closest  friend. 
But  he  had  a  thing  at  his  heart,  deep, 
moving.  Only  slowly,  he  knew  that  you 


Denial  ill 

do  not  keep  a  big  thing  back — from  the 
friend. 

"Master  gave  out  prize  subjects  this 
morning,'7  he  said. 

"Well— I" 

"Well — the  essay  's  decent.  'This  place 
in  the  Founder's  day.'  " 

"David!  Mistress  put  that  into  his 
head,  I  know!" 

"No.  It  was  some  old  lady  up  at  the 
Hall,  just  come.  He  told  me  so." 

"Not  my  godmother!  Did  he  say  Miss 
Nicholas?" 

"Miss  Nicholas!    No." 

"Founder's  heir.  She 's  come  back 
then!  And  we  thought  she  'd  let  it  for 
good." 

"Well,  she  '11  be  giving  the  prizes, — or 
else  some  learned  friend  of  hers.  That 
last  big-wig — ass  on  his  hind  legs,  wasn't 
he?" 

"Bather.    Did  you  send  in,  then?" 


112  Bedesman  4 

"Yes.  I  made  a  poor  job.  I  shan't  this 
time."  He  sat  gazing  before  him,  silent, 
at  a  gorgeous  tulip-bed.  She  watched  him 
with  softened  eyes. 

"You  won't.  Suppose  it  were  the  be- 
ginning?" 

He  gave  one  quick  nod,  and  a  wise 
woman  arrived  at  the  holding  of  her 
tongue.  She  rose  and  went  to  root  a  weed 
from  the  tulip-bed.  He  said,  as  to  himself : 
"Good  to  begin  already."  Bridget  came 
back. 

Sitting  down  she  smiled,  picking  up  a 
corner  of  his  Bedesman's  gown  that  lay  on 
the  seat  between  them.  The  porter's  wife 
had  lately  let  it  down  to  within  the  last 
inch  of  its  liberal  turning. 

"Your  own  subject,"  she  said.  "I  *ve 
never  known  another  but  you  that  cared 
to  walk  about  Spetterton  in  this.  Boys  are 
such  self-conscious  loonies !" 


Denial  113 

He  lifted  his  head  as  with  offense. 
"There  's  graceless  fellows  in  every 
school." 

f  l  Oh,  come !  It  's  just  want  of  imagina- 
tion." 

"If  you  choose  to  give  smart  names  to 
ugly  things.  You  think  what  they  owe 
him!" 

"Yes,  but  if  you  're  a  born  idiot, — why, 
you  are!  You  can't  expect  things  centur- 
ies old  to  appeal  to  them,  because  they  ap- 
peal to  you." 

He  rose  with  a  quick  movement  and 
stretched  his  arms  above  his  head. 

"I  must  go,  Bridget,  or  be  late  for  hall. 
I  '11  come  one  day,  and  talk  it  over,  and  see 
how  that  creeper  's  doing." 

"Do.  Dad  might  have  some  books. 
Oh,  David—" 

He  turned. 

"I  want  to  thank  your  mother.    Why 


114  Bedesman  4 

shouldn't  you  and  Ned  and  I  ride  over  on 
Saturday?  Dad  would  lend  you  his  old 
bicycle. ' ' 

David  paused.  That  jewel  of  his  lay 
close  against  his  heart. 

"I  'm  not  the  best  of  men  on  a  bike." 
He  began  to  laugh.  Then  she  saw  him 
catch  himself  up.  He  went  on  deliber- 
ately, his  eyes  on  the  -tulip-bed. 

"No.  That  's  not  speaking  truth  to- 
gether. I  'd  like  to  go  well,  and  for  you 
to  go.  Only — " 

Bridget's  frankness  veiled  itself  with 
something  gentle  as  she  waited  for 
more. 

"It  's  her  I  'm  thinking  on.  She  'd  be 
pleased  and  proud,  I  know  that.  But — " 

"Yes?" 

"I  wouldn't  have  her  take  you  for  a 
young  lady.  You  're — not  what  she  'd 
mean,  anyway." 

"David,"   said  Bridget,  with  deep   se- 


Denial  115 

piousness,  "  shake  hands.  You  have  some 
glimmerings  of  intelligence." 

" Thank  you  kindly,  I  'm  sure,"  said 
David,  a  small  smile  stirring  his  lips.  "I 
should  be  pretty  well  baked  lop-sided, 
should  n't  I,  if  I  hadn't  some  by  now,  be- 
ing as  I  ami" 

"Maybe,"  she  answered,  "but  I  think 
you  'd  always  have  had  them.  It  comes 
out  in  other  ways."  She  glanced  at  the 
gown. 

He  shook  his  head  gravely. 

"Not  if  I  'd  been  left  at  bird-starv- 
ing." 

"What  is  bird-starving?" 

"What  my  younger  brother  'd  be  at 
now,  if  I  had  one.  You  sit  under  the 
hedge  with  a  clapper  when  the  crop  's 
coming  up,  to  drive  them  off.  You  may 
bide  there  best  part  of  a  morning  and  not 
see  half  a  dozen,  if  Farmer  's  a  careful 
man." 


li6  Bedesman  4 

f 

"Time  to  think!" 

"You  leaves  off  thinking,  when  that 's 
your  life.  Look  here,  Bridget,  I  shall  be 
late." 

"Well,  come  on  Saturday  and  hunt 
Dad's  book-shelves." 

When  he  was  gone,  she  stood  still  in  a 
muse.  How  curious  it  was  to  hear  his 
tongue,  his  very  words,  change  when  he 
thought  of  the  fields !  The  voice  of  a  gong 
and  an  aroma  of  roast  mutton  reaching 
her,  she  ran  up  the  steps,  unbuttoning  her 
overall. 

The  use  of  a  common  playing-field 
caused  a  " girls '  half"  to  fall  on  a  boys' 
whole  school-day,  save  on  the  Saturdays 
dear  to  both.  Bridget's  afternoon  was 
free.  When  Ned,  who  was  leaving  at  mid- 
summer, to  be  articled  to  his  father, 
followed  David's  road,  she  stood  looking  at 
her  neat  new  bicycle.  Then  she  sat  down  on 
the  top  garden-step  and  thought  for  a  con- 


Denial  117 

siderable  time.  Bridget  had  a  clear  and 
a  stable  mind.  After  a  bit,  she  usually  saw 
her  woman's  way.  Alone  from  babyhood 
with  two  male  things,  she  had  had  to  learn 
how.  She  went  indoors  and  put  on  a 
clean  white  blouse.  Contemplating  a 
springlike  hat,  she  shook  her  head,  tried 
the  more  natural  "tammy";  then,  thank- 
ing the  heavens  for  a  windless  day,  de- 
cided on  the  hat.  "It  's  a  formal  call," 
she  remarked  to  herself,  "though  most 
likely  the  compliment  will  be  lost  on  her. ' ' 
When  she  had  visited  the  garden  again, 
she  rode  away  through  Spetterton  High 
Street,  and  turned  up  the  hill  past  the  hos- 
pital, a  stiffer  climb  than  the  London 
road.  Among  the  green  lanes,  she  stopped 
to  pick  white  violets,  dawdling  under  the 
sweet  sunshine,  promising  herself  to 
gather  more  coming  home. 

It  was  after  half-past  three  when  she 
came  to  the  gray  cottages.     In  the  bright 


n8  Bedesman  4 

garden  before  the  little  house  that  stood 
back,  she  saw  a  lavender-clump  lately  dis- 
turbed. 

Save  this,  nothing  but  chance  guided  her : 
and  dismounting  she  pushed  the  gate  and 
went  to  knock  at  the  door. 

"Is  Mrs.  Bold  at  home?"  she  said  at 
a  venture. 

Within,  all  was  silence.  Through  the 
door,  down  the  two  little  steps,  she  saw  the 
small  quiet  house-place  full  of  the  sun- 
shine, the  dresser,  the  gate-legged  table 
against  the  wall,  the  other,  round  and  with 
the  half  cloth  on  it,  ready  for  the  tea  cups, 
the  clean  broad  stones  underfoot.  She 
had  never  realized  David's  home,  even 
when  she  had  thought  about  it.  Now  with 
a  sudden  shock  of  understanding  and 
change,  she  wondered,  was  her  visit  that 
thing  worse  than  a  crime,  a  blunder  f  an  in- 
trusion into  her  friend *s  sacred  things? — 
"Rubbish,"  concluded  Bridget,  with  de- 


Denial  119 

cision,  taking  refuge  in  mere  good  man- 
ners. She  knocked  again  to  encourage 
herself. 

A  step  sounded  on  a  creaking  stair,  and 
Esther  Bold  came  through  the  house- 
place.  Her  dressing  for  tea  being  as  much 
a  matter  of  course  as  a  Duchess 's  for  din- 
ner, she  had  been  upstairs  changing  her 
gown.  Her  clean  apron  covered  up  her 
brown  skirt;  her  beautiful  hair,  un- 
streaked  as  yet,  lay  close  to  the  shapely 
head  so  like  her  boy's,  in  firm  plaits;  her 
grave  mother's  eyes  looked  in  love  on 
every  young  thing.  The  girl's  clear  look 
took  her  in  silently  for  a  moment :  intensely 
attracted,  unfamiliarly  shy.  Those  eyes 
stirred  something  unknown  and  demand- 
ing, that  she  was  afraid  of,  deep  at  the 
roots  of  Bridget.  She  spoke  quickly. 

"You  're  Mrs.  Bold?  I  came  over  to 
thank  you  ever  so  much  for  the  lovely 
creeper  and  the  love-in-the-mist,  and  all 


12O  Bedesman  4 

you  gave  David  for  my  garden.  He  and  I 
put  them  all  in  this  morning,  and — " 

"Do  please  to  come  in,  miss,"  said 
Esther  Bold.  Bridget  fiercely  regretted 
the  tammy.  It  was  her  way  to  come  to 
grips  with  a  disagreeable  thing. 

"I  can't,"  she  said  mournfully,  "if 
you  're  going  to  call  me  that!  I  'm  just 
Bridget  Burton,  David's  school-fellow. 
He  doesn't  make  hosts  of  friends;  and 
I  'm  proud  that  he  's  mine.  The  school  's 
going  to  he  proud  of  David,  I  can  assure 
you,  when  he 's  a  bit  older."  Esther 
Bold's  cheek  flushed. 

She  held  the  inner  door  quietly  open. 
Bridget  knew  she  had  pleased. 

"Will  my  bicycle  be  safe?  Oh,  thanks, 
I'll  fetch  it  in." 

Eeturning,  her  bright  eyes  met  Esther's 
across  a  mass  of  soft  white,  pink- 
tinted. 

"I  thought  you  might  like  some  of  my 


Denial  121 

double  tulips.  These  are  just  out,  and 
David  said  you  had  none." 

"Well,  I  'm  sure — they  're  lovely.  But 
do  ee  come  in."  Mrs.  Bold  turned  round 
a  fireside  chair.  Beaching  an  old  blue 
jug  from  the  dresser,  she  stepped  "out 
back"  to  fill  it.  Then  looking  across  the 
nosegay  at  the  fresh  face  full  of  its  char- 
acter, the  ruddy  plaits,  the  young,  lissom 
figure,  she  smiled.  "I  'm  sure  I  *m  that 
pleased  to  see  you,  like  one  of  the  flowers 
yourself,  such  a  lovely  day.  You  live  to 
Spetterton  then,  m — my  dear!" 

' '  My  brother  's  with  David  at  Nicholas ' ; 
and  I  'm  in  the  Sixth  Form  on  the  girl's 
side.  That 's  how  we  know  each  other. 
My  father  made  the  plans  for  the  new 
vestry  at  your  church.  Mrs.  Bold, — who 
did  make  that  sampler!" 

"That  's  mine.  They  don't  teach  ee 
samplering  there,  I  reckon.  'T  is  all  for- 
got now.  My  mother  's  there, — you 


122  Bedesman  4 

should  look  at  that.  And  here  's  my  Emily 
coming,  must  show  you  hers;  and  we  '11 
have  a  cup  o'  tea." 

"Is  she  at  school?" 

"She  left  Christmas-time;  come  the 
winter  she  '11  be  going  to  place,  I  hope. 
Her  Granny  's  ailing  just  now  and  Emily  's 
mostly  down  there.  My  dear!  here  's  a 
visitor  come  to  see  us,  Miss  Burton  as 
goes  to  school  with  Dave,  and  have  brought 
us  them  lovely  tulips." 

Emily  came  to  an  abrupt  stand-still; 
she  carried  a  bundle  tied  in  a  blue  hand- 
kerchief, as  well  as  a  milk-can;  and  she 
wore  a  lilac-checked  long  pinafore  over 
her  cotton  frock.  The  wide-open  friend- 
liness of  her  blue  eyes  was  crossed  sud- 
denly by  something  strange  to  them,  as 
they  realized  the  girl  examining  Granny 
Fielder's  stitchery,  who  held  out  a  greet- 
ing hand. 

Emily  took  it  and  let  it  drop:  turning, 


Denial  123 

shy  and  wordless,  to  hang  up  her  sunbon- 
net. 

"You  got  to  fetch  your  sampler,  too," 
her  mother  said,  to  help  her  out.  "I  put 
it  by  in  the  drawer  upstairs." 

Emily  opened  the  brown  door  in  the  wall 
and  there  was  silence  while  her  loud 
step  mounted,  paused,  and  came  down 
again.  She  held  out  the  folded  work 
dumbly  to  her  mother. 

"Show  it  to  Miss  Burton,  while  I  set  the 
tea." 

Approaching  Bridget,  Emily  laid  it  on 
the  table  and,  still  wordless,  stood  by  her, 
first  on  one  foot,  then  on  the  other. 

* '  I  wish  I  could  mark  like  that,  it  would 
be  nice  for  one's  things.  Wasn't  it  a 
long  job?" 

"No,"  said  Emily  stolidly. 

"It  's  all  done  by  thread,  of  course." 

"Yes."    The  same  dull,  raw  voice. 

Bridget's     eyes    glanced    up    at    her. 


124  Bedesman  4 

David's  sister!  This  rough,  sandy- 
headed  girl. 

"Thee  better  fill  the  kettle,"  said  Es- 
ther Bold  with  a  grave  mildness. 

As  Emily  disappeared:  "You  '11  ex- 
cuse her,  my  dear.  She  's  one  o'  the  shy 
ones.  Misses  our  Dave  something  dread- 
ful, she  do,  just  after  he  's  gone:  makes 
her  like  that.  Yes,  put  her  on,  Em'ly. 
Won't  you  come  out  while  she  's  boiling, 
and  look  at  my  flowers?" 

Tea  was  still  in  progress  when  a  large 
cream-colored  figure  darkened  the  door. 

"We  Ve  begun  a  bit  early,  Father,  hav- 
ing a  visitor."  Mrs.  Bold  repeated  her 
explanation,  and  Bridget,  rising,  held  out 
her  hand.  Father,  handsome  as  he  was, 
went  further  to  mystify  her  thoughts  on 
David.  His  large  palm  left  white  dust  on 
her  fingers,  which  he  dropped  exactly  as 
Emily,  and  he  nodded  mutely  to  his  wife 
and  went  out  by  the  back  door:  from  a 


Denial  125 

further  region  came  sounds  of  pumping 
and  splashing,  and  Esther  bade  Emily 
fetch  Father's  shoes.  When  he  returned, 
cleaner  but  less  picturesque,  Bridget  es- 
sayed conversation  on  the  weather,  which 
met  with  agreement,  though  "you  don't 
know  much  about  it  when  you  be  under- 
ground." A  certain  check  fell  on  the 
former  feminine  chat,  and  Father,  occu- 
pied with  deep  draughts  of  tea,  did  nothing 
to  fill  the  gap.  Glancing  at  the  clock, 
Bridget  took  her  leave.  Esther  followed 
her  to  the  gate  with  cordial  good-byes 
' '  and  come  again,  do  ee,  my  dear. ' '  Look- 
ing after  her,  she  smiled  and  sighed. 

"Sweetheartin'  a 'ready!"  said  Esther 
Bold. 

Bridget,  riding  home  in  the  soft  evening, 
tried  to  re-adjust  her  thoughts  and  see  the 
David  of  Nicholas'  in  this  new  milieu. 
She  found  it  well-nigh  as  hard  as  realizing 
a  departed  friend  in  heaven.  Her  heart 


126  Bedesman  4 

sank  a  little  and  her  eyes  grew  grave.  The 
more  did  he  need  all  that  Nicholas'  and  the 
new  life  could  give  him.  She  sat  upright 
at  the  top  of  the  long  hill,  and  put  on  her 
brake  firmly.  Friendship  is  a  serious 
responsibility.  Then  her  thought  called 
back  Esther  Bold:  the  country  voice,  the 
unconscious  dignity,  the  serious  eyes  that 
were  like  home.  A  motherless  girl,  swal- 
lowing deep  in  her  throat,  sped  past  the 
white  violet  bank  with  unseeing  eyes. 

"Who  was  that  come  to  tea?"  Father 
said,  between  the  puffs  of  his  pipe. 

"She  rs  one  that  goes  to  the  other  part 
o'  Dave's  school;  come  over  to  thank  me 
for  some  bits  of  plants  I  give  him  for  her 
garden." 

"Uncommon  fine  girl:  taller  'n  you, 
Em'ly." 

"She 's  older,"  said  Emily  quickly. 
She  rose  to  fetch  a  reel  of  cotton  from 


Denial  127 

the  table.  As  though  after  reflection,  she 
added:  "I  reckon  she  's  pretty  wasteful, 
wearing  her  best  hat  of  anyday." 

"I  went  to  thank  your  mother,"  Brid- 
get said,  ''the  same  day  you  were  here." 

David,  halfway  up  the  library  steps, 
looked  quickly  from  between  two  dusty 
covers.  "Was  she  at  home?" 

"Yes,  and  gave  me  tea;  and  your  sister 
and  your  father." 

David  sat  down  on  the  top  step,  his  fin- 
ger between  the  pages:  he  met  her  eyes 
with  a  sort  of  detached  thoughtful- 
ness. 

"You  'd  find  it  a  queer  little  place  after 
here,"  he  said,  with  an  odd  simplicity, 
"just  about  an  old  house,  ours  is." 

"Your  mother  's  lovely." 

His  eyes  changed,  till  they  were  almost 
like  Esther's  own. 

"Emily  was  shy,  was  n't  she?" 


128  Bedesman  4 

"Yes.    I  don't  think  she  fancied  me." 

"She  don't  know,"  said  David  with  a 
touch  of  eager  apology. 

Bridget  smiled. 

'  *  David — you  must  get  your  mother  here 
for  Margaret's  Day.  All  the  parents 
come. ' ' 

His  look  brightened.  "So  I  should.  I 
never  thought  upon  it." 

She  taught  him  everything,  he  said  to 
himself.  To  know  her  was  a  liberal  educa- 
tion. 


T 


vin 

HEE  new  bonnet 's  awful  pretty, 
Mother." 

"Don't  seem  as  I  knows  myself  in  it," 
Esther  Bold  said.  She  turned  to  the  lit- 
tle square  of  looking-glass  to  draw  the 
new  adornment  forward  on  her  head. 
"There,  we're  as  the  Lord  made  us, 
Emily,  when  all 's  said  and  done." 

"He  made  thee  awful  nice,  then,"  said 
her  daughter  valiantly,  "and  thee  did 
ought  to  have  what  sets  ee.  Open  out  thee 
pocket-handkercher,  for  luck." 

"Tut!"  said  Esther,  but  her  lips  smiled. 
"You  run  on,  now,  child,  else  Granny  '11 
be  waiting  for  her  dinner.  The  cart 
won't  come  this  ten  minutes." 

She  followed  Emily  downstairs :  and  the 


130  Bedesman  4 

cart  delayed.  Presently  she  stood  at  the 
gate  watching  for  it.  The  twentieth  of 
July  was  a  true  gala  day.  The  wide  view, 
all  rich  blues  and  soft  grays,  was  crossed 
by  no  cloud-shadows;  the  clove-carnations 
in  the  border  scented  the  warm  air. 

Along  the  road  where  the  cart  should 
come,  a  man  in  white  clothes  appeared, 
running.  As  he  neared,  his  pace  slack- 
ened. He  lifted  a  hand. 

An  odd  shock  startled  Esther  Bold. 
She  unlatched  the  gate  and  went  to  meet 
him. 

Every  window  of  the  hall  was  open. 
The  long  room  was  full.  On  the  platform, 
one  small  lady's  pale  gray  costume,  and 
the  dashes  of  red  upon  a  Bedesman  *s  gown 
relieved  the  flat  blacks  of  the  group  of 
masters. 

1  'English  Essay,  Bold,"  Frank  Fletch- 
er said;  and  resumed  his  seat. 


Denial  131 

The  room  rustled  lightly:  the  ladies  in 
bright  summer  gowns  and  men  in  frock- 
coats,  slightly  bored,  settled  themselves 
with  commendable  patience  to  be  quiet 
through  another  prize  exercise.  At  least 
this  one  was  in  the  vernacular. 

A  boyish  voice,  pitched  nervously  a 
trifle  high,  with  an  unconscious  cadence  in 
it,  began  to  speak.  After  half  a  dozen  sen- 
tences, the  silence  had  ceased  to  be  a 
forced  and  guarded  thing.  The  tall  boy 
was  not  reading.  He  was  telling  a  story; 
which  began: 

"Towards  the  latter  end  of  the  15th  Cen- 
tury, a  learned  and  kindly  gentleman — " 

A  girl  in  a  dainty  white  frock  and  poppy- 
trimmed  hat,  on  one  of  the  raised  benches 
at  the  Hall's  end,  cast  a  searching,  slowly 
despairing  glance  over  the  company  and 
settled  herself  to  listen. 

The  silence  lasted.  At  the  close  of  the 
story,  a  burst  of  clapping  rose. 


132  Bedesman  4 

On  the  platform,  the  lady  in  gray  leaned 
over  and  spoke  to  the  Master. 

"Who  helped  him  with  that?" 

Frank  Fletcher  turned. 

"Books.    No  one  else." 

"Are  yon  sure?" 

The  Master  smiled.     "I  know  the  boy." 

There  was  a  movement  in  the  Hall.  The 
Master  rose  and  requested  Miss  Nicholas 
to  give  away  the  prizes,  displayed  in  rows 
before  her  on  the  table.  When  Bedesman 
4  came  up,  amid  applause,  the  little 
gray  lady  leaned  across  the  table,  almost 
as  her  stature  had  compelled  her  to  do  when 
the  smallest  boy  came  up. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  handing  over 
the  bound  volumes. 

The  boy  was  evidently  confused.  His 
hand  went  instinctively  to  where  his  cap 
should  have  been  and  dropped  disap- 
pointed. He  blushed  furiously. 

A    few    minutes    later,    the    audience, 


Denial  133 

streaming  out  of  the  heated  hall,  clustered 
about  white-clad  tea-tables  on  the  bowling- 
green,  amid  a  buzz  of  talk. 

"Bold!  This  way.  Miss  Nicholas 
wants  you  introduced." 

The  Master  led  David  towards  a  bench 
where  Miss  Fletcher  and  the  gray  lady 
were  accepting  cream  and  cakes  from  a 
strikingly  handsome  elderly  gentleman. 
Bridget,  eagerly  watching  their  approach, 
sat  next  Miss  Nicholas,  who  shook  hands 
with  David  and  looked  at  him  straight. 

* '  I  hope  you  will  come  and  see  me  at  the 
Hall  some  Saturday.  I  will  show  you  the 
other  portrait  of  the  Founder  and  some 
possessions  of  his.  Will  you  get  me  some 
more  tea?" 

David  did  not  know  afterwards  what  he 
had  said,  in  his  effort  not  to  fall  back  on 
the  " Thank  you  kindly"  of  his  childhood. 
When  he  returned  with  the  tea-cup,  the 
gray  lady  was  in  conversation,  and  thanked 


134  Bedesman  4 

Mm  with  a  nod;  and  Bridget  said:  "She 
isn't  here!" 

"I  know.  I  Ve  looked  for  her  every- 
where. Something 's  happened  to  stop 
her.  I  say,  could  I  be  heard?" 

' '  To  the  very  end.    It  went  grandly. ' ' 

A  new  group  approaching,  they  were 
parted.  In  the  movement  David  felt  a 
touch  on  his  shoulder. 

"I  want  to  take  a  look  at  your  buildings. 
Couldn't  we  slip  away  from  all  this?" 

David  knew  not  why  the  wise  and  whim- 
sical countenance  of  Miss  Nicholas'  elderly 
friend  recalled  an  hour  in  Bloody  Lane, 
that  lay  three  summers  behind  him. 
Something  was  swelling  in  him,  jubilant 
but  very  shy.  He  was  glad  to  get  away. 

"You  Ve  not  rightly  seen  hall,  sir. 
Come  this  way,  please." 

Their  progress  became  a  continuous  joy. 
The  old  gentleman,  it  appeared,  was  by 
nature  argumentative,  and  held  diametric- 


Denial  135 

ally  opposite  views  on  antiquarian  mat- 
ters to  those  in  vogue  at  Nicholas.  It  was 
impossible  to  hear  such  sentiments  and 
not  unloose  one 's  tongue.  By  the  time  the 
Bedesmen's  rooms  were  reached,  their  at- 
titude was  one  of  unembarrassed  sparring. 

David  offered  his  armchair.  The  guest 
sat  down  with  evident  satisfaction. 

"You  enjoyed  writing  that  essay,"  he 
remarked.  "Where  did  you  hunt  up  all 
that  knowledge  of  the  time!" 

"Part  of  it  was  Froude:  part  old  books 
Mr.  Burton  lent  me." 

"One  of  the  masters?" 

"No,  sir:  he  's  an  architect,  but  he  has 
a  sight  of  odd  things  on  his  shelves,  school 
statutes,  old  church  accounts  and  things 
in  Spetterton,  and  Cathedral  records. 
You  get  soaked  with  a  period  that  way. 
Then  you — "  he  stopped  suddenly. 

"Yes,  you—?" 

"I  studded  on  it,"  the  boy  said  slowly; 


136  Bedesman  4 

"that  's  like  to  seeing  it,  after  a  bit.  I 
met  a  Professor  once,  told  me  that  was  the 
way/' 

"Ah!"  said  the  elderly  gentleman.  He 
seemed  to  meditate.  "You  '11  be  a  writer 
in  a  few  years,"  he  remarked.  "When 
you  have  something  done,  come  up  and 
show  it  to  me.  Barabbas  was  not  of  my 
firm,  though  they  say  he  was  a  publisher." 

On  the  card  offered  him,  David  read 
with  amazement  a  name  hitherto  associated 
only  with  the  backs  of  revered  books. 
Without  waiting  an  answer,  the  old  gen- 
tleman put  his  head  out  of  the  window, 
asked  some  one  below  if  a  train  was  not 
due,  and  then  ran  downstairs  without  fur- 
ther parley.  David  stood  still  in  the  midst 
of  the  floor,  then  slowly  went  down  too. 

The  throng  was  beginning  to  thin,  and 
the  boy,  avoiding  it,  doubled  down  a  back 
passage,  made  a  quick  circuit  and  pres- 
ently swung  himself  over  Miss  Fletcher's 


Denial  137 

garden  railings.  He  wanted  silence, 
alone-ness,  "the  sweet  smell  of  the  fields." 
In  the  open  meadows,  under  a  hedge  fra- 
grant with  honeysuckle,  he  lay  still,  on  his 
back,  for  a  long  while.  His  eyes  followed 
the  moving  cloudlets.  His  soul  within  him 
spoke  with  strange  new  things.  Before 
he  was  aware,  the  fathomless  blue  swam 
before  his  sight.  The  world  grew  bigger 
and  bigger.  The  beginning!  ah,  the  be- 
ginning !  How  good  is  the  beginning ! 

The  golden  mists  of  Life's  morning 
parted  round  David  Bold.  For  this  fair, 
intense  moment,  the  thing  he  was  to  do, 
to  be,  was  with  him,  was  his  own.  As 
though  already  he  were  the  man  to  come, 
it  was  there,  quick,  newborn,  his  life,  him- 
self. That  joy  within  him  swelled  into  one 
great  sob,  that,  breaking,  shook  and  star- 
tled him,  and  left  wetness  on  his  cheek. 

Ah !  the  long  days,  the  weeks,  the  years, 
for  work — work! 


138  Bedesman  4 

The  marvel  that  had  brought  a  peasant- 
boy  to  this  home,  where  his  soul  dwelt  at 
ease!  And  all  Oxford  to  come! 

Great  words,  remembered  from  a 
Browning  reading  in  Bridget's  garden, 
leaped  to  his  lips: 

I  go  to  prove  my  soul ! 

I  see  my  way  as  birds  their  trackless  way. 

I  shall  arrive ! — 

After  a  long  while,  the  voice  of  a  bell 
warned  him.  He  rose  slowly.  To  keep 
rules  was  always  less  trouble  to  David  than 
to  break  them:  though  the  thought  of  tea 
was  odiously  material. 

The  bowling-green  was  empty  now,  save 
for  a  pair  of  waiters  lifting  the  last  tres- 
tles and  picking  small  litter  from  trampled 
turf.  All  wore  its  familiar  air.  With 
reverence  to  all  visions,  thick  bread  and 
butter  is  good.  David  had  finished  his 
third  slice,  when  a  hand  touched  him. 

"You  're  wanted  in  the  lodge,"  the  por- 
ter's voice  said. 


Denial  139 

"  Me  ?  "  said  David,  turning.  Something 
in  the  man's  face  startled  him:  he  got  up 
at  once,  aware  of  a  deep  and  formless 
fear. 

In  the  little  square  room,  his  mother 
rose  from  a  chair.  She  looked  very  white 
and  tired,  and  wore  a  bonnet  he  did  not 
know.  When  she  had  kissed  him,  she 
moistened  her  lips  as  if  to  let  words  pass 
through.  But  none  came.  Something  un- 
known took  hold  on  David's  heart.  It  said 
he  was  a  man :  she,  for  all  else  she  was  to 
him,  a  woman. 

1  'Come  along  to  my  room,"  the  boy  said. 
Going  up  the  stairs,  he  watched  her  steps 
as  though  she  might  fall. 

The  wooden  chair  stood  where  the 
publisher  had  left  it.  David  put  her  in 
it  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  table,  wait- 
ing. 

Esther  Bold  lifted  her  head.  For  a  long 
moment  she  looked  at  him  mutely. 


140  Bedesman  4 

"Dave — thee  Father  's  hurted, — terr'- 
ble  bad, — up  to  quar' — this  mom- 
ing" 

She  looked  round,  like  one  realizing.  "I 
were  just  ready,  coming  off — here." 

"Is  he  alive?"  the  boy  said  hoarsely. 

She  nodded. 

"They  've  took  him  to  the  'firmary. 
But  they  don't  know — not  yet.  The  right 
leg.  That 's  broke.  And  his  arm.  And 
maybe  there  's  more.  A  piece  o'  roof  come 
down.  I  Ve  just  come  away.  They  was 
awful  kind." 

The  boy  gave  a  queer  little  nod.  His 
lips  grew  white,  but  he  kept  hold  on  him- 
self. 

"When '11  they  know?" 

"They  can't  tell  that.  They  Ve  set  the 
leg ;  't  is  a  awful  bad  break.  But  he  ain  't 
come  to.  Maybe — " 

"He  never  will?"  David  said.  She 
nodded. 


Denial  141 

"'Twere  the  Lord's  mercy  he  weren't 
clean  killed." 

Something  in  the  well-known  pious 
phrase  was  more  than  her  son  could  bear. 
Tears  smarted  in  his  eyes.  He  gripped 
one  arm  with  the  other  hand  till  he  could 
have  cried  out  with  pain.  He  spoke 
quickly.  It  was  the  old  speech. 

"How  are  thee  going  home?  I  sha* 
come  with  ee." 

"I  'm  stoppin'  the  night  here,  wi'  Eliza 
Simms  as  was ;  going  back  to  the  'firmary 
to-morrow,  nine  o'clock.  Emily  's  down 
to  Granny's." 

"Does  she  know!" 

"Yes.  I  stopped  there  to  tell  'em. 
They  took  him  right  off  from  quar',  so 
soon  as  they  got  him  out,  in  Mr.  Richards' 
carriage;  and  John  Drew  he  run  down  to 
tell  me." 

"I  shall  go  to  the  Infirmary  with  ee. 
Master  '11  let  me  off  second  hour.  You 


142  Bedesman  4 

bide  here  quiet,  and  I  '11  see  him.  Have 
thee  had  any  tea?" 

1 '  The  nurse  give  me  a  cup,  but  I  could  n ' 
drink  none.  I  'd  like  very  well  for  thee  to 
be  wi'  me  a  bit." 

"Thee  can  bide  with  me  here,"  he  said, 
and  went  away.  His  mother  drew  a  long 
sigh.  Looking  round,  she  seemed  to  see 
the  room  as  in  a  dream:  her  boy's  little 
place,  with  its  open  window,  that  she  pic- 
tured to  herself  at  home.  The  climbing 
rose  thrust  in  soft  pale  heads.  A  couple 
of  books,  a  gentleman's  card,  were  on  the 
table :  a  bunch  of  wild  flowers  on  the  man- 
tel. She  wondered,  dreamily,  where  Dave 
got  the  little  blue  jug.  It  was  pretty — 
Why  was  she  like  this? —  The  shock,  most 
likely.  She  had  been  herself  all  right,  till 
now:  just  as  if  she  had  no  feeling. 

Below  stairs,  David  followed  his  knock 
into  the  study.  The  Master,  addressing 
a  letter  for  the  post,  looked  up. 


Denial  143 

"What 's  wrong,  Bold?"  he  said  quickly. 

Upstairs,  he  drew  up  the  other  chair  and 
sat  quietly  by  Esther,  as  they  spoke  to- 
gether. 

'  *  David,  your  mother  would  be  the  better 
for  a  glass  of  port  wine.  Go  and  ask  Biggs 
to  bring  me  some  up  here." 

The  boy's  lips  smiled,  mechanically,  as 
his  mother  answered:  "I  couldn't,  sir, 
'turn  you  many  thanks,  beinr  abstainer 
pledged." 

"Then  a  sandwich,  a  cup  of  tea.  You 
had  dinner  early." 

David  was  despatched  this  time. 

"He  shall  go  with  you  to-night,  for  as 
long  as  you  want  him:  and  to-morrow  to 
the  Infirmary.  You  '11  have  him  home,  you 
know,  next  week.  He  's  had  a  great  suc- 
cess, to-day,  Mrs.  Bold.  I  wish  you  had 
been  there.  His  essay  struck  people 
much." 

She   looked   back   wordlessly:   her  lips 


144  Bedesman  4 

quivered.  The  Master  took  leave  of  her 
kindly.  'Back  in  the  study  he  stood  still. 
"Of  all  the  maddening  events — !"  said 
Frank  Fletcher  aloud  to  the  silence. 

David,  setting  the  tea  on  the  table,  picked 
up  the  visiting-card,  thrusting  it  into  his 
pocket.  Sitting  beside  her,  he  helped  his 
mother,  seeing  her  eyes  revive  gradually 
and  become  themselves. 

"What  '11  thee  do,"  he  said,  abruptly, 
"if  he  's  in  there  long?" 

"He  '11  be  on  club.  I  sh'  have  nine  shil- 
ling a  week  for  eight  weeks,  six  after.  I 
must  go  up  to  Rectory  when  I  get  back 
home.  They  was  wanting  some  one  for 
their  washing." 

David  flushed.  "Thee  Ve  never  took 
in  no  work,"  he  said  with  a  touch  of  of- 
fense. 

"I  Ve  never  needed,  thank  the  Lord. 
But  I  'm  good  at  it.  My  mother  were 
laundress,  thee  knows.  Nine  shilling  ain't 


Denial  145 

like  twenty-four:  and  he  '11  want  a  lot  o' 
things  when  he  comes  out." 

She  sat  silent  for  a  space,  and  ceased  to 
eat.  " Maybe,"  she  said,  slowly,  "he  '11 
never  go  back  to  quar'.  'T  ain't  work  for 
a  man  as  has  been  all  broke  up. ' ' 

David  watched  her  with  wide  eyes. 
Then  he  filled  up  her  cup;  she  stirred. 
"We  just  got  to  wait  on  the  Lord.  May- 
be he  won't — " 

She  stopped  suddenly. 

'  *  Thee  got  me, ' '  the  boy  said,  in  a  hurry. 

His  mother  looked  at  him  wordlessly. 
Then  she  drew  him  nearer.  They  were 
locked  in  a  long  kiss. 

When  David  turned  back  through  the 
streets  from  the  house  of  the  kindly  Eliza 
nee  Simms,  the  warm  summer  dusk  was 
deepening  towards  night  and  the  lamps 
shone  yellow.  Before  the  closed  window 
of  a  large  stationer's  the  boy  stopped.  A 


146  Bedesman  4 

white  notice  was  fastened  to  the  window 
with  wafers.  He  read  it  through  three 
times. 

" David!"  a  surprised  voice  said. 

He  turned.  Bridget's  face,  under  the 
poppy- trimmed  hat,  changed  as  she  saw 
him.  "Something  's  the  matter." 

He  nodded.  The  sight  of  her  seemed  to 
rob  him  of  speech.  She  was  so  dainty,  so 
pretty,  so  utterly  part  of  the  gay  scene 
that  had  been  his  triumph. 

"Come  home  with  me,"  the  girl  said, 
grasping  a  situation  she  knew  not.  "I  Ve 
been  at  the  Hall  all  this  while  with  my  god- 
mother." She  glanced  up  and  down  the 
silent  street  as  he  turned  mechanically 
by  her  side  and  spoke  slowly. 

"Mother  came,"  he  said  with  a  miser- 
able smile;  "my  father  was  nearly  killed 
in  the  quarry  this  morning.  She  'd  been 
with  him  to  the  Infirmary.  I  Ve  just  left 
her." 


Denial  147 

"Oh,  David!"  the  girl  breathed. 

She  went  on  swiftly  beside  him  into 
Church  Square  round  the  corner,  and 
opened  the  door  with  a  latch-key. 
"Father  's  dining  out,"  she  said. 

In  the  long  old  schoolroom  the  windows 
stood  open  to  the  soft  air-swept  twilight. 
They  sat  down  together;  and  he  told  her 
bare  details  in  detached  sentences. 

"Most  likely,"  came  the  last,  "he  '11 
die."  The  boy  dropped  his  chin  on  his 
palms.  He  sat  staring  before  him,  com- 
posed, tearless.  But  his  eyes  had  that  in 
them  that  made  her  afraid. 

"I  '11  have  to  leave  school,"  he  said. 
Then  suddenly  he  sat  up  and  turned  on 
her.  "A  pretty  thing  to  be  thinking  of 
that,"  he  cried  harshly,  "when  my  father  's 
a  broken  man,  at  the  best.  But  I  do." 

"Hush,  David!  You  must  think  of 
that.  It 's  your  life.  I  should  myself; 
and  I  'm  a  girl." 


148  Bedesman  4 

"Mother  's  going  to  take  in  washing," 
he  said,  between  his  teeth.  "I  'd  have 
thought  nothing  of  that  three  years  ago. 
Now  I  can't  stand  it.  Bridget — what 's 
been  done  to  me?" 

"You  Ve  been  educated,  that  's  all,"  said 
Bridget  simply.  She  was  not  sure  she  had 
uttered  the  fundamental  reason;  but  she 
realized  a  deep  calm  within  her  that  could 
be  leaned  on  like  a  quick-set  hedge,  and 
that  had  to  mean  help.  Her  mind  went 
on  working.  She  had  fallen  in  love  with 
Esther  Bold,  but  found  it  quite  possible 
to  visualize  her  at  the  wash-tub.  Not  so 
David  behind  the  plow. 

"You  're  older,  too.  But  David,  you 
sha'n't  leave.  There  are  ways — " 

The  boy's  eyes  dwelt  on  her,  large, 
and  with  a  dreary  wildness  in  them.  He 
stretched  out  his  hands  with  a  dramatic 
gesture  and  took  hold  of  her  wrist. 

"Feel!     They're  strong.    If  I'd  been 


Denial  149 

left  there,  they  'd  have  been  at  hard  work 
this  three  years,  beginning  with  five  and 
then  eight  or  nine  shillings  a  week.  I 
shan't  make  that  now;  but  my  mother 
needn't  slave  for  me." 

"You  're  talking  wild,"  said  Bridget 
steadily.  "No  reasonable  being  would  put 
you  to  field  work  now." 

"What  would  you  put  me  to?  It  will 
be  five  years  with  the  biggest  luck  before 
my  education  brings  in  anything.  I  've  to 
be  earning  now:  how  doesn't  matter  since 
it  can't  be  by — " 

He  got  up.  Turning  his  back  he  thrust 
his  hands  fiercely  down  into  his  pockets, 
fighting  for  self-command.  Suddenly  he 
turned,  and  flung  something  into  her  lap. 

"Look  at  that.  He  said  to  me:  'You  '11 
be  a  writer.  When  you  've  something 
ready,  bring  it  to  me.'  " 

There  was  light  enough  by  the  fading 
window  to  read  a  name. 


150  Bedesman  4 

"David!'*  the  girl  said.  There  was  a 
long,  dead  silence.  Then  Bridget  sprang 
up  from  the  window-seat.  Taking  him 
gently  by  the  shoulders,  she  turned  him 
towards  her. 

"David,  look  at  me." 

As  their  eyes  met,  he  knew,  despite  the 
dusk,  that  hers  were  shining  like  stars.  In 
his  there  was  no  confiding,  only  a  wide  and 
dreary  misery.  The  girl  gave  him  a  quick 
little  shake. 

"Don't  be  tragic  till  you  must!  There 
are  things  to  be  done.  Only  they  '11  take 
a  little  time." 

He  shook  his  head.  Gently  he  slipped 
from  between  her  hands. 

"Don't  you  see,"  he  said,  very  quietly, 
"it  has  got  to  be,  or  else  I  've  got  to  be  a 
cur!  Which  would  you  choose?" 

"Don't  go  and  do  something  precipi- 
tate—" 

She  stopped,  unable  to  finish. 


Denial  151 

"What  would  the  Founder  say?"  asked 
David  almost  fiercely. 

William  Bold  was  conscious,  when  wife 
and  son  sat  beside  his  bed  next  morning. 
The  stricken  face,  the  slow  speech,  the 
great,  prostrate,  motionless  figure  were  as 
nothing  to  Esther,  when  once  his  eyes  knew 
hers  again.  To  David's  young  conscious- 
ness, they  were  a  shock  and  a  horror  that 
he  could  not  contemplate.  He  sat,  hands 
clasped  between  his  knees,  staring  at  the 
white,  scrubbed  boards  under  his  feet. 
Strong,  sound,  sufficient  one  moment;  the 
next,  broken  in  pieces.  Was  life  like 
that? 

The  nurse  drew  near  and  spoke.  Esther 
rose  to  go.  As  she  turned  from  the  bed, 
the  sick  man's  eyes  dwelt  on  the  tall,  boy- 
ish figure  in  the  long  red-bordered  gar- 
ment. There  was  a  sort  of  hardness  in 
them. 


152  Bedesman  4 

' '  Thee  '11  have  to  give  up  the  book-learn- 
ing now,"  the  weak  voice  said. 

The  boy's  eyes  met  his,  aware,  steady. 

"I  know,  Father,"  said  David  Bold. 

He  put  his  mother  into  the  cart  that  was 
picking  her  up,  and  turned  to  go  back  to 
school.  At  the  street's  end  he  paused  a 
moment.  Then,  turning  to  the  left,  he 
reached  the  shop  by  which  he  had  met 
Bridget.  It  bore  over  the  door  the  legend 
"Spetterton  Chronicle  Office";  and  the 
white  notice  was  in  the  window  still. 
David  went  in. 

" Can  I  see  Mr.  Biles?" 

"What  name?" 

"Bold.  It  's  about  the  notice  in  the  win- 
dow." 

The  young  man  opened  a  door  behind 
the  counter  and  took  him  through. 

A  small  alert-looking  man  at  a  desk,  at 
work  on  a  long  sheaf  of  galley-proof,  looked 
up. 


Denial  153 

"Want  to  see  me,  eh?"  He  surveyed 
David  critically,  and  Ms  thin  lips  stirred 
at  the  corners.  "  Scarcely  old  enough  for 
our  staff,  I  'm  afraid." 

"You  said  a  man  that  could  write,  and 
had  evenings  free,"  said  David  desper- 
ately. "I  got  the  English  Essay  at  Nich- 
olas '  and — " 

The  editor  smiled.  "No  reporting  ex- 
perience, I  expect!"  he  observed,  looking 
at  his  watch. 

"I  'd  do  anything  you  set  me  to." 

"So  would  half  a  dozen  men  twice  your 
age,  and  want  no  teaching.  I  'm  afraid 
it 's  no  go." 

The  boy  went  back  through  the  shop  and 
out  into  the  street.  Some  time  after 
twelve  he  sought  Mr.  Fletcher.  Standing 
by  the  writing-table,  he  spoke  carefully 
prepared  words. 

"My  father  's  come  to  himself,  sir:  but 
they  think  very  badly  of  him.  I  Ve  come 


154  Bedesman  4 

to  say  I  'm  afraid  I  '11  have  to  leave.  My 
mother  '11  need  me,  if  he  does  n't  get  well: 
and  if  he  does,  most  likely  we  shall  have  to 
keep  him." 

The  Master  looked  at  him  gravely. 
"The  Council  may  have  something  to  say 
about  that,  Bold.  You  came  in  on  a  Trus- 
tee's nomination." 

"I  know,  sir — you  don't  suppose  I  'm 
— "  he  gripped  himself  there,  by  ceasing 
to  speak.  "When  I  get  home  I  shall  know 
more  about  it,"  he  said  lamely,  and  turned 
to  go.  The  Master  glanced  at  him  and 
saw  much. 

"Come  down  and  see  me  when  you  do. 
I  shall  be  here  for  the  first  ten  days.  Stop 
a  minute,  I  '11  give  you  those  books  I 
promised  you  for  the  holidays." 

He  turned  to  the  book-shelf. 

The  boy  looked  up  quickly — an  odd 
surprise  in  his  face.  The  thing  loomed  so 
vast  to  him  that  books  for  the  holidays 


Denial  155 

seemed   a  painful  irrelevance.    He   took 
them  and  went. 


It  did  not  take  very  long  to  pack  Granny 
Fielder's  trunk;  nor  to  bump  it  down  the 
broad  staircase  to  the  gateway  to  await 
the  cart  which  would  take  it  home. 

The  old  buildings  were  empty  and  quiet 
before  ten  o'clock  that  Thursday  morning, 
with  that  dead  hush  of  opening  holiday 
that  only  school-folk  know.  From  the 
hall's  doorway  the  porter  and  the  boot-boy, 
as  David  passed,  were  carrying  out  worn 
oak  benches  to  be  scrubbed  and  dried  in  the 
broad  sunshine. 

At  the  corner  of  the  quadrangle  he  stood 
still,  looking  back,  his  eyes  seeking  the 
open  window  of  his  room.  Deep  in  his 
soul  lay  that  pessimism  of  youth,  that  sees 
not  beyond  a  poignant  moment.  He  would 
never  come  back. 

Lifting    a    hand    with    an    unconscious 


156  Bedesman  4 

gesture,  he  blessed  the  place  in  his  heart. 

Then  he  went  slowly  on  into  the  fields, 
and  took  a  turn  away  from  his  road  home- 
ward. He  had  yet  one  thing  to  do.  It 
led  him  through  pleasant  woodland  ways 
to  a  green  and  shady  meadow. 

St.  Margaret's  Chapel  was  open.  In 
the  midday  silence  his  footfall  on  the  flags 
and  the  little  wicket  falling  to  behind  him 
echoed  loud.  In  the  space  behind  the  al- 
tar Sir  Humphrey  and  fair  Dame  Margaret 
lay  solemn  and  peaceful  in  their  sleep. 
The  boy  knelt  down  on  the  pavement,  rest- 
ing his  forehead  against  the  chill  marble 
of  the  tomb.  A  strange  and  tender  still- 
ness came  over  him,  body  and  spirit.  He 
slowly  ceased  to  think. 

But  within  he  spoke,  wordlessly,  as  to 
some  one  quite  near. 

The  conflict  and  distress  within  him,  the 
pain  of  being  torn  away,  began  to  die 
down,  softening  slowly  to  a  deep  hush. 


Denial  157 

Something  unknown  and  solemn  grew  in 
him,  a  thing  that  the  child  he  still  was 
never  yet  had  known.  He  no  longer 
fought  for  his  deep  desire  nor  against  it. 
He  seemed  to  have  laid  it  down  on  the  step 
of  the  tomb,  to  be  looking  at  it  dispas- 
sionately, yet  understanding  it  more  deeply 
than  ever  he  had. 

The  mists  that  blind  pain  raises  lifted 
from  his  soul.  In  the  clear  light  he  knew 
for  the  first  time  that  life's  greater  deed 
is  always  to  give,  not  to  receive.  He 
knelt  there  a  long  time,  understanding 
slowly. 


IX 

ALONG  and  rambling  housefront  in 
gray  and  lichen-grown  stone  lay 
warm  in  the  sunshine  under  the  brow  of 
the  hill.  The  place  wore  a  still  and  almost 
an  empty  air,  as  Bridget  set  her  bicycle 
against  the  low  wall  of  the  upper  garden 
terrace  and  approached  the  front  door. 

"I  know  she  was  coming  back  yester- 
day," the  girl  said  to  herself. 

Till  St.  Margaret's  Day  she  and  her 
godmother  had  not  met  since  Bridget  was 
a  small,  bright-eyed  person  of  seven. 
They  were  friends,  but  a  personal  talk  was 
the  only  means  for  Bridget's  present  ends. 

"Is  Miss  Nicholas  in?"  she  asked 
eagerly  of  the  leisurely  and  serious  man- 
servant. 


Denial  159 

"Miss  Nicholas  is  gone  abroad,  miss. 
We  had  a  letter  this  morning." 

* '  Thank  you, ' '  said  Bridget  slowly.  She 
stood  reflecting.  "Can  I  have  her  ad- 
dress?" 

"We  haven't  one  yet,  miss.  It 's  to  be 
sent." 

Esther  Bold's  son  stopped  before  the 
gray  farm-house  two  fields'  length  from 
his  home.  As  luck  would  have  it,  the 
farmer  was  crossing  the  garden  to  his  din- 
ner. David  unlatched  the  gate  and  went 
in. 

"Please,  sir,  would  you  be  able  to  give 
me  a  job?" 

The  thick-set,  gray-headed  man  looked 
with  critical  eyes  at  the  applicant,  who  did 
not  seem  to  fit  his  inquiry. 

"Eh?  Let 's  see.  You  're  young  Bold, 
aren't  you?" 

"Yes,  sir.    My  father  's  in  the  hospi- 


160  Bedesman  4 

tal;  I  Ve  come  home  to  help  my  mother." 

"Your  father  's  a  quarryman." 

"Yes,  sir.  But  I  Ve  no  experience 
there.  I  'm  strong,  and  I  'm  not  stupid, 
and  you  won't  find  me  a  lazy  one."  He 
seemed  to  look  at  himself  from  outside, 
quite  freshly  and  suddenly. 

"Well, — I  'm  cutting  barley  to-morrow. 
Be  in  the  five-acre  at  half -past  five  and 
we  '11  see  what  you  can  do  there, — and  pay 
you  according." 

David  thanked  him  and  went  on. 

It  was  past  dinner-time.  Emily  stood  at 
the  gate.  Cords  would  not  have  bound  her 
to  Granny's  at  this  hour. 

'  *  Well,  Sis, ' '  the  boy  said,  lifting  up  his 
heart  to  the  level  of  a  smile.  "  I  'm  late,  I 
expect.  I  had  to  go  out  of  my  way." 

"Dinner  's  ready,"  she  answered,  her 
eyes  dwelling  on  him.  "Thee  box  ain't 
come  yet,  though." 

His  mother  met  him  in  the  doorway. 


Denial  161 

She  was  pale  still,  but  the  mere  look  of  her 
seemed  to  rest  him. 

"I  went  in  yesterday, ' '  David  said, '  i and 
nurse  says  they  're  going  to  try  and  save 
the  leg." 

"Come  to  thee  dinner,"  she  answered, 
fondly,  "  't  is  a  long  step. ' ' 

The  scent  of  the  well-known  stew,  the 
sight  of  his  father's  chair  brought  some- 
thing stinging  into  his  eyes. 

"I  've  got  a  job  of  work,  Mother," 
he  said  quickly,  "down  to  Mr.  Han- 
cock's." 

"That  *s  my  good  boy,"  said  Esther 
simply. 

At  the  meal,  presently,  she  said :  "I  did 
ought  to  go  up  to  quar'  and  see  the  master. 
He's  there  to-day  and  we  haven't  said 
nothing  about  giving  up  the  crane. '  * 

"I  can  do  that,"  said  David. 

"So  thee  could.  Thee  must  take 
Father's  book."  The  quarry-master 


162  Bedesman  4 

might  as  well  see  the  boy  they  had,  Esther 
thought  with  a  quick  pride. 

"Come  along,  Sis,"  said  David.  As  the 
two  went  soberly  side  by  side,  Emily's  eyes 
sought  his  face. 

' '  Dave — do  ee  think  Father  '11  get  well  ? ' ' 

"I  expect  so.    It  rs  a  week  to-morrow." 

"Yes.  Dave—"  A  pause.  "Will  he 
be — cripple?" 

"I  don't  know,  Em.  Nor  they  either. 
Bad  injuries,  the  doctor  said,  and  they 
were  afraid  for  his  back;  but  they  don't 
tell  one  anything." 

"Dave — what  'd  Mother  do  then?  And 
us?" 

The  boy  looked  across  at  the  blue  hills. 

"Keep  Father,"  he  said,  steadily. 
"I  Ve  left  school.  I  shall  speak  to  the 
quarry-master.  Hancock  isn't  worth 
much.  Has  Mother  been  after  that  wash- 
ing?" 

"Yes,  she  '11  have  it,  when  Sykeses  goes. 


Denial  163 

Dave — aren't  thee  going  back — not 
never?" 

"Not  if  it 's  so,"  he  answered,  drearily. 
The  words  seemed  to  thrust  at  his  heart. 
He  glanced  furtively  at  his  Emily.  Do 
gradual  years  divide  confidantes  from 
babyhood?  He  saw  a  light  that  she  could 
not  help  grow  over  her  broad  face.  She 
would  not  let  it  be  a  smile.  Then  swift 
compunction  came. 

"Oh,  Dave — thee  be  sorry!" 

"Never  mind  that,"  he  said.  If  a  man 
had  to  stand  alone,  he  did  not  need  a  girl 
to  prop  him  up. 

"Dave—" 

"Yes?" 

"Did  n't  I  ought  to  go  to  place  now?" 

"Why,  yes,  we  've  got  to  save  her  all  we 
can.  How  do  you  come  by  a  place?" 

"You  goes  to  Registry,  or  you  asks 
folks.  There 's  Sally  Bence  is  leaving 
from  Rectory.  Her  mother  were  in  to 


164  Bedesman  4 

Granny's  this  morning,  a-telling  up.  She 
don't  like  the  cooking." 

1  'Sally  was  always  a  silly.  Mother  'd 
like  that  for  thee.  We  '11  go  on  up  to  Rec- 
tory after  we  've  been  to  quar'.  Then 
you  '11  be  in  before  another  one." 

*  *  Mother  don 't  know !     Oh,  can  us  I " 

"We  've  got  our  own  sense,  child."  He 
was  immeasurably  the  elder  now. 

The  quarry-master  was  in  the  little 
wooden  office  at  the  head  of  the  white  road 
running  down  into  the  ground.  He  looked 
at  David  seriously. 

"This  is  a  bad  job,  my  lad,  and  a  long 
one,  I  'm  afraid!" 

David  spoke  fully.  This  was  an  old  em- 
ployer, who  looked  at  ^you  kindly,  con- 
cerned for  a  valued  hand.  He  paid  over 
the  full  money  and  a  trifle  more.  The  boy 
was  encouraged  to  ask :  '  *  Should  I  be  any 
good  to  you,  please,  sir?" 

"Let 's  see,  how  old  are  you?    Never 


Denial  165 

been  underground?  Where  does  your 
schooling  come  in?" 

"Nowhere,  I  'm  afraid,  sir,"  said  the 
boy  dejectedly. 

"Come!  Cyphering?  Book-keeping? 
I  'm  not  wanting  any  one  now,  though. 
Think  of  you,  if  I  should. ' ' 

The  two  went  on  their  way  to  the  Rec- 
tory back  door,  boldly  asking  for  Mrs. 
Eichards.  That  lady,  vigorous,  but  a  trifle 
stumpy,  in  a  short  skirt  and  an  apron,  was 
busy  with  a  spud  on  the  lawn,  where  she 
interviewed  them.  David's  fatherly  air 
amused  her;  she  smiled,  rubbing  the  end 
of  her  nose  with  a  mould-stained  finger 
protruding  from  an  ancient  glove.  Yes, 
Emily  might  do.  She  had  better  ask 
Mother  to  come  and  see  Mrs.  Richards. 
The  round  face  beamed  with  broadening 
smiles,  as  they  crossed  the  stile  home- 
wards. 

"Nine  pounds  a  year!" 


166  Bedesman  4 

"Well  done,  Sis!" 

David  swallowed  a  sigh.  Who  would 
rate  him  at  nine  pounds  a  year!  When 
Emily  became  the  better  man,  it  seemed 
that  humiliation  could  no  farther  go. 

Mother's  eyes  swam  and  her  lips 
twitched  when  she  heard. 

"It  's  good  to  have  good  children." 

Emily  came  for  a  kiss,  and  trotted  off  to 
Granny's  tea,  but  David  went  outside  and 
took  a  long  while  bringing  in  wood.  Sit- 
ting down  to  feed  the  fire,  he  remained 
staring  at  the  leaping  flames.  His  mother, 
coming  near,  rested  a  hand  on  him:  the 
boy  looked  up  quickly  with  a  strained,  sen- 
sitive face. 

"Don't  ee  fret  thee,  child,"  Esther  Bold 
said,  quietly. 

"I  bain't  any  good  to  thee,"  he  an- 
swered under  his  breath. 

"Nay.  Thee  be  comfort  all  the  time.  I 
looks  to  my  son." 


Denial  167 

His  eyes  searched  her  face. 

"He  don't  bring  in  anything."  Deep 
peasant  instincts  were  making  him 
ashamed. 

"He  Ve  give  up  a  lot,"  she  answered, 
gravely. 

He  leaned  his  head  against  her.  In  his 
eyes  tears  smarted,  but  the  feel  of  her 
brown  gown,  her  stillness,  her  quiet  touch 
brought  him  the  fathomless  comfort  that 
is  in  unreasoned,  primal  things.  That  she 
understood  was  balm  to  him:  but  her 
motherhood  was  like  some  deep  conscious- 
ness of  God — not  to  be  told,  tender,  mighty. 
After  silent  moments,  he  murmured: 

"You  gave  up  me." 

She  smiled,  above  his  dark  head. 

"And  were  glad  to.  Now,  thee  didn't 
ought  to  have  to  go  to  field  work,  when 
there  's  been  time  to  look  around." 

He  answered  not,  but,  reaching  out  for 
her  hand,  laid  his  cheek  against  it. 


i68  Bedesman  4 

Emily,  on  returning,  was  full  of  the  fu- 
ture. 

"Look  ee,  Mother,  Granny  Ve  give  me  a 
piece  of  calico,  what  she  had  by  her,  and 
her  blue-print  frock  as  is  pretty  near  new, 
and  Mrs.  Bence  she  come  in  and  she  look 
just  about  sour." 

"She  '11  be  main  disappointed  with 
Sally,"  said  Mother,  gravely.  "You  mid 
get  the  scissors,  my  dear,  and  be  unripping 
this,  while  I  'm  gone  up  to  Mrs.  Richards. 
Your  Granny  's  good  to  ee. ' ' 

Emily  would  have  chattered  on  over  her 
task.  But  David's  eyes  were  on  a  book, 
beside  the  hearth.  The  look  of  him  op- 
pressed her  vaguely. 

The  three  years  for  her  had  meant  nine 
periods  of  holiday  passed  with  an  oracle 
and  a  wonder,  a  little  more  grown-up  each 
time.  Of  his  real  development  she  had 
known  nothing  nor  guessed  she  knew  not, 
for  at  home  he  was  still  part  of  the  old  life ; 


Denial  169 

the  other,  dear  and  precious  as  it  was, 
dropped  from  him  here  like  the  Bedes- 
man's gown  he  left  behind:  save  for  books 
brought  back  and  read  almost  as  he 
breathed,  perpetually  and  unconsciously. 
With  a  part  of  him  she  was  still  one :  and 
though  bereaved  between  whiles,  had 
scarcely  known  jealousy,  save  when  the 
other  girl  crossed  the  path.  Now,  keep- 
ing silence,  she  slowly  sobered  in  the  midst 
of  her  own  joy. 

Turning  a  page,  he  heaved  a  long  sigh. 
Emily  dropped  the  scissors.  Getting  up 
she  crossed,  and  took  his  head  in  her  arms. 

"Dave — I  weren't  right  to  ee.  I  be 
sorry,  really — " 

He  sat  more  upright  and  smiled. 

"All  right,  child,"  was  all  he  said. 

Esther  Bold  came  in  smiling. 

"It  's  all  right,  my  dear.  You  're  to  go 
Tuesday." 

The  boy  rose  and  with  a  finger  between 


170  Bedesman  4 

the  leaves,  went  out.    His  mother  looked 
after  him. 

"He  's  takin'  on  bitter,"  she  said; 
' '  don 't  take  no  notice,  Em'ly.  You  and  me 
can't  understand.  The  learnin  's  a  lot  to 
David." 

The  morning  was  clear  and  dewy  in  the 
wide  five-acre  field.  The  long  swathes  of 
the  barley  fell  rustling  before  the  gleam- 
ing knives  of  the  patent  reaper,  which 
George  Marton,  on  the  high  gray-painted 
metal  seat,  drove  steadily.  David,  follow- 
ing in  the  line  of  binders,  learned  his  job 
gradually  and  silently  from  his  next  neigh- 
bor. The  air  was  cool  and  sweet  with 
early  savors,  under  long  tree  shadows :  the 
world,  all  pure  and  fresh,  was  bathed  still 
in  the  deep  gravities  of  night.  The  boy's 
young,  anxious  soul  drew  in  great  breaths 
of  refreshment  and  poetry.  Cold  tea  and 
bread  and  bacon  under  the  hedge  found 


Denial  171 

him  ravenous  for  breakfast.  Exercise  and 
early  morning  belonged  to  youth ;  and  this 
was  the  world  of  his  childhood.  One  could 
get  on,  if  things  were  no  worse  than  this. 
By  "elevens,"  he  was  realizing  that  it 
was  harder  work  than  football.  Over 
"fourses,"  after  long  fierce  drinks  of  tea, 
he  fell  dead  asleep  along  the  ground,  to  be 
roused  by  shaking  and  loud  raillery,  that 
brought  the  blood  stinging  to  his  cheeks. 
But  they  were  all  old  friends,  and  the  other 
world  was  far  away.  He  laughed  with 
them.  At  home  he  fell  asleep  over  supper 
and  climbed  the  stairs  to  bed  in  a  dream. 
He  looked  to  find  all  things  easier  as  the 
days  passed,  and  his  spirits  rose.  All 
country  instincts,  for  rich  brown  earth, 
and  all  green  things  and  wholesome  scents, 
were  strong  and  pleasant  in  him.  But,  as 
the  first  week  went  on,  he  began  to  live  in 
a  deepening,  ever-increasing,  aching  weari- 
ness. "He 's  over-old  to  begin,"  his 


172  Bedesman  4 

mother  thought,  anxiously.  Barley-har- 
vest lasted  till  the  wheat  was  cut:  the 
farmer  kept  him  on  and  he  had  no  other 
course:  but  Saturday's  shillings  seemed  a 
poor  price  for  the  straining  and  spending 
and  benumbing  of  one's  whole  being.  The 
second  week  he  ached  less.  His  body  was 
growing  more  accustomed,  but — there  was 
no  mind.  He  seemed  to  travel  on  without 
one,  never  thinking,  never  touching  a  book ; 
always,  somewhere,  weary,  with  that  tired- 
ness that  weighs  down  the  soul. 

Then  it  happened  to  him,  that  as  he  sat 
in  church  on  the  second  Sunday,  long- 
known  poetries  of  the  Old  Testament 
awoke  him  suddenly  as  from  a  deep  sleep. 
He  sat  upright  on  the  narrow  seat  beside 
his  mother:  his  eyes  brightened.  Mr. 
Eichards  was  a  fine  reader.  The  rugged, 
massive  figure  of  Elijah  the  mountain 
prophet  stood  alive  before  David's  eyes. 
Suddenly,  once  more,  he  was  Bedesman 


Denial  173 

4,  thinker,  historian  to  come.  He  sat 
with  parted  lips,  aware  intensely  of  each 
majestic  period. 

All  through  life,  David  Bold  never  for- 
got that  hour.  It  was  as  though  he  were 
alive  from  the  dead.  Things  around  him 
sprang  into  vivid  relief.  He  saw  the  gray 
low  quire-arch  with  its  deep,  strange  chis- 
elings,  framing  the  quiet  chancel  beyond, 
so  that  it  seemed  some  remote  chapel  of 
the  mysteries.  As  if  for  the  first  time  he 
knew  that  St.  Ambrose,  Broughton  Priors, 
was  a  fine  and  an  ancient  church.  His 
soul  stirred  to  the  sublime  rhythm  of  the 
Te  Deum.  He  knew  his  mother's  face  be- 
side him,  beautiful  with  the  light  that  is 
devotion:  his  heart  lifted;  standing,  he 
sang  with  all  the  rest,  praising  God  word- 
lessly that  these  things  were  so. 

And  then  he  knew  that  the  dumb  sleep 
he  had  awaked  from  was  the  life  he  lived 
to-day ;  the  life  he  had  to  live,  unless  those 


174  Bedesman  4 

rapt  and  lovely  eyes  were  to  look  to  a  son 
in  vain. 

Late  that  afternoon,  David  came  into  the 
empty  open  church,  and  sat  down  in  the 
same  place.  He  had  to  square  accounts 
with  himself,  and  to  be  alone  to  do  it. 
Besting  his  elbows  on  the  narrow  book- 
desk,  his  chin  on  his  palms,  he  stared  away 
from  him  up  into  the  dim  chancel.  He 
was  trying  to  call  back  an  hour  in  St.  Mar- 
garet's Chapel,  whose  grasp  held  him  still. 
Was  it  true,  the  thing  he  had  heard  there  ? 

To  give — all  that  made  the  world  worth 
having:  to  be  the  gift;  never  again  to  be 
himself;  always  the  gift,  the  man  denied 
his  life. 

Was  this  the  Deed?  this  "the  trackless 
way"?  He  saw  it  all,  in  a  drear,  yet  pa- 
tient vision :  the  cottage  dwelling,  the  coun- 
try speech,  no  mind  for  books,  Oxford  not 
even  a  dream;  life  shared  with  the  simple, 
not  the  wise,  the  taught;  outward  things, 


Denial  175 

fields,  cattle,  growing  crops — these  the  real 
facts  that  mattered ;  Emily  the  prosperous 
maid-servant,  with  a  "young  man" — 
David  smiled  drearily, — Father,  the 
broken  man  growing  aged  in  the  chimney- 
corner,  Mother — no,  he  could  not  stand 
that!  He  got  up  quickly.  Stepping  into 
the  aisle,  he  walked  with  rapid  steps  up 
the  church.  Under  the  chancel-arch  he 
stood,  pressing  his  nails  into  his  palms. 

For  her  he  could  do  this — anything. 
But  if  she  were  gone — /  Some  day  your 
Mother  died.  If  you  needed  her  most  of 
all,  then  she  would  go  first.  And  then — 
the  thing  would  have  been  done.  There 
would  be  no  going  back:  only  the  rest  of 
life  to  live. 

The  boy  stood  quite  still,  setting  his 
teeth.  His  vivid  mind  saw  that  which  he 
saw.  And,  staring  out  between  youth's 
blinkers,  he  saw  it  colored  and  itself,  and 
saw  it  whole. 


176  Bedesman  4 

After  a  long  pause,  he  drew  a  deep 
breath.  No  further  light  had  dawned. 
He  turned  and  went  away  out  of  the 
church. 

It  was  all  true,  that  dark  vision.  And 
there  was  nothing  before  him  save  to  go 
on.  Or — to  "be  a  cur." 

As  he  walked,  for  one  bitter  instant  his 
whole  being  waked  up  and  raged,  crying 
out  against  the  futility,  the  silly  waste  of 
him.  Then  silently,  relentlessly,  he  set  his 
foot  upon  himself.  David  Bold  was  a 
man.  He  began  to  know  it;  for  a  man's 
burden  lay  on  him,  that  burden  that  is  all 
the  weak  of  the  earth :  the  weak — and  those 
who,  since  ever  he  had  begun,  had  suffered 
and  strained  and  labored  and  loved — that 

he  might  be. 

*         *         *        # 

"Yes,  child.  I  've  come  home.  This 
time  for  good.  I  've  hoped  for  it  often : 
now  I  'm  going  to  do  it. ' ' 


Denial  177 

"I  'm  so  glad,  godmother!"  Bridget 
leaned  across  the  tea-table.  "If  you  'd 
waited  a  year  or  two  longer,  I  should  have 
been  gone." 

Miss  Nicholas  looked  her  over.  "I  sup- 
pose you  would.  Yes,  I  am  glad.  You  're 
like  your  mother,  Bridget,  though  you  're 
a  differently  shaped  woman.  Now,  if 
you  Ve  finished,  my  dear,  we  '11  go  into 
that  library.  I  believe  the  servants  are 
right.  Tenants  are  one's  natural  ene- 
mies." 

The  long  room  looked  west,  with  a  north 
window  also.  The  tall  bookcases  kept 
their  treasures  behind  brass  lattice-work. 
A  little  pile  of  folded  dusters  lay  on  the 
corner  of  a  dark  old  table.  Miss  Nicholas 
picked  one  up. 

"Bates  thinks  we  shall  want  plenty  of 
these,"  she  said  grimly,  opening  a  book- 
case door;  "have  you  brought  an  apron, 
Bridget!" 


178  Bedesman  4 

It  was  the  third  of  the  August  Satur- 
days. Hot  afternoon  sunshine  lay  over 
the  broad  land.  .  Cycling  was  warm  work, 
but  Bridget  got  over  the  road  quickly,  and 
sprang  off  eagerly  at  the  cottage  gate. 

"Mrs.  Bold,"  she  said  in  the  doorway, 
"are  you  at  home?  Can  I  see  David?" 

Esther  came  from  the  door,  pushing 
aside  a  long  flapping  sheet  drying  on  the 
new  line  set  up  down  the  garden. 

"Oh,  come  in,  Miss  Burton."  Stepping 
to  the  gate  she  looked  up  the  road. 

"They  're  just  comin'.  I  can  see  John 
Francis.  They  was  to  finish  carrying  the 
Sidelings  about  now.  Yes,  there  he  is  a- 
comin'  along."  Turning  back,  she  glanced 
over  her  guest.  "You  '11  have  to  give  the 
poor  boy  a  minute  or  two.  He  don't  look 
very  fit  to  talk  to  the  likes  of  you. ' ' 

Bridget's  answer  was  to  come  to  the 
gate. 

The  boy  who  came  in  sight  wore  a  pair 


Denial  179 

of  fustian  trousers  and  a  white  linen  jacket 
of  his  father's  over  his  blue  shirt,  open 
at  the  neck.  At  sight  of  Bridget,  his  eyes 
woke  up.  The  instant's  vision  of  his 
changed  face  seemed  to  strike  at  the  girl. 
She  had  never  before  seen  David  look  half- 
asleep.  His  fingers  buttoned  the  shirt  at 
his  throat.  He  had  colored.  She  had 
come  none  too  soon. 

"  I  'm  not  fit  to  shake  hands, ' '  he  said. 

"I  wanted  to  see  you.  I  have  a  message 
for  you." 

He  glanced  at  her  quickly.  His  lips 
shook. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "I  'm  about  ready 
for  some  tea." 

"Yes,  my  dear.  Go  in  and  clean  your- 
self. Miss  Burton  '11  have  a  cup  wi'  us. 
There  's  plenty  o'  wood." 

Bridget  went  inside  with  a  sense  of  hav- 
ing reached  the  middle  of  a  situation  be- 
fore the  beginning. 


180  Bedesman  4 

"My  Em'ly  she  's  got  a  good  place," 
Esther  Bold  said,  as  she  reached  the  cups ; 
"gone  to  the  Rectory,  between-maid,  last 
Monday.  'T  is  just  a  special  blessin'. 
And  Father  's  getting  on  a  bit  now.  We 
saw  him  Saturday." 

"You  and  David?" — Had  he  come  into 
Spetterton,  and  not  to  Church  Square? — 

"No,  Emily.  Dave  's  that  tired  when 
Saturday  comes,  he  don't  want  long  walks. 
The  field-work  's  pretty  hard  on  him,  for 
all  he  gets  on  with  it. ' ' 

Bridget  said  nothing  for  a  moment. 

"I  suppose  it  makes  good  money, 
though, ' '  she  said  with  an  air  of  innocence. 

"Ten  and  six  a  week  he  gets.  That  's 
harvest  money,  though.  He  's  slow  at  it, 
never  doin'  it  till  now.  I  hope,  though,  as 
Farmer  '11  keep  him  on.  Here  he  is  com- 
ing." 

The  David  who  entered  now  seemed  to 
his  friend  more  like  the  real  boy.  He  wore 


Denial  181 

a  collar  and  the  suit  she  knew,  and  he  set 
a  chair  for  her  with  the  smile  of  a  grave 
face.  It  was  older.  The  mouth  had 
grown  firm ;  the  eyes  were  steady,  but  less 
bright ;  the  long,  brown  hands  were  rough- 
ened and  their  nails  broken,  but  they  had 
been  well  scrubbed.  He  cut  the  home- 
made cake,  and  lifted  his  mother's  kettle., 
doing  the  host's  small  duties  with  a  ma- 
turer  air  than  Bridget  had  known  in  him, 
though  he  left  the  talk  to  the  others,  as 
though  tea  mattered  most. 

Esther  rose.  Heaping  the  things  on  a 
tray,  she  went  "out  back'*  to  wash  them, 
closing  the  door  rather  carefully  after 
her. 

David  moved  to  his  father's  chair.  He 
began  to  pull  the  half -burnt  sticks  out  of 
the  fire,  laying  them  on  the  wide  hob  to 
cool  against  next  time. 

"What  message  is  it,  then?"  he  said, 
without  preamble. 


182  Bedesman  4 

Bridget  leaned  forward,  an  arm  on  the 
table. 

"The  message  is  from  Miss  Nicholas. 
She  's  settling  down,  bless  her,  to  live  at 
the  Manor,  and  I  'm  staying  with  her  for 
my  holiday,  while  Dad  and  Ned  are  gone 
fishing.  She  is  very  anxious  and  busy 
over  the  library.  She  and  I  have  been 
sorting  and  dusting  and  clearing  for  a 
week,  but  the  more  we  do,  the  more  there 
is,  and  the  more  she  worships  it.  Her 
father  and  grandfather  just  let  it  be,  but 
her  great-grandfather  was  a  bookworm, 
and  his  accumulations  are  marvelous. 
Yesterday  she  had  a  man  down  from  Lon- 
don to  advise.  She  could  n't  abide  him  and 
said  he  looked  greedy  at  the  books :  and  she 
would  n  't  leave  him  alone  a  minute !  But 
he  let  in  lots  of  light  and  showed  us  how  to 
sort,  and  to  bring  the  catalogue  to  date,  so 
that  we  can  get  on.  But  it  will  take 
months,  and  we  want  a  helper  with  nothing 


Denial  183 

else  to  think  about,  who  can  work  all  day. 
The  man  offered  us  one  of  his  expert 
youths  at  two  guineas  a  week  and  board: 
and  she  thanked  him  very  kindly,  and  sent 
him  off  with  his  fee.  So  now  I  've  come 
over  to  say  she  wants  you. ' ' 

The  boy's  mouth  grew  straight  and  he 
sat  upright.  "Me?" 

"You.  She  '11  give  you  fifteen  shillings 
a  week  and  your  meals,  and  she  keeps  a 
bicycle  for  the  groom,  that  you  can  come 
and  go  on  night  and  morning.  She  and  I 
can  show  you  the  job;  part  of  the  day 
we  're  working  too." 

"But  I — I  'm  not  worth  that  money. 
What  do  I  know!" 

"Lots  more  than  Tony  Smart,  who  'd 
come  for  sixteen,  being  the  book-seller's 
son.  At  least  the  Master  says  so;  and 
Dad." 

"Did  they  recommend  me?  Was  it  all 
you?" 


184  Bedesman  4 

"She  asked  them  of  course,  you  loonie! 
Do  you  think  she  'd  trust  a  girl,  about  the 
books  I  She  thinks  every  one  either  covets 
or  would  destroy  them.  But  she  likes  you, 
because  of  your  essay ;  and,  since  the  Mas- 
ter trusts  you,  you  're  all  right.  Do  you 


"Ye-s.  I  'm  better  than  Tony.  But— 
I  don't  know — " 

" Don't  know  what!" 

The  boy  took  up  one  of  the  cooling  sticks 
and  hit  it  hard  against  the  hob:  the  last 
sparks  flew  up. 

' '  Look  here, ' '  he  said,  speaking  very  low, 
1  'you  know  I  'd  give  my  ears  to  come. 
But — I  couldn't,  and  come  back  again  to 
the  field-work.  It 's  a  dog's  life,  but  very 
likely  it 's  got  to  be  mine,  for — for  her 
sake."  He  nodded  towards  the  door. 
"My  education  's  of  no  money  use.  It  *s 
not  gone  far  enough.  And,  if  I  've  got  to 
choose — then  I  'd  better  turn  my  back  on  it 


Denial  185 

now.  Only  a  fool  does  a  beastly  thing  at 
twice.'*  He  spoke  with  a  repressed  vehe- 
mence, that  she  had  never  seen.  His  lips 
shook.  He  hit  the  stick  hard  against  the 
hob  again,  so  that  it  snapped  in  two. 

The  girl  looked  at  him,  with  eyes  that 
dimmed,  finding  a  poor  male  thing  in  pain 
a  pathetic  sight.  She  stretched  a  hand 
and  laid  it  on  his  arm. 

"See  here,  dear  man,"  she  said,  simply, 
"we  '11  ask  your  mother.  Why,  David — 
after  this,  you  could  get  into  a  second-hand 
bookshop,  and  work  right  up ! " 

The  tall  north  window  looked  obliquely 
over  the  green  valley.  The  long,  airy 
room,  lay  in  calm,  cool  shadow  and  silence. 
Busy  people  do  not  talk. 

The  small  elderly  lady  stood  looking 
over  David's  shoulder.  She  was  a  person 
of  an  exquisite  neatness  and  still  very 
pretty.  Her  deep  blue  cashmere  gown  had 


i86  Bedesman  4 

fine  lace  at  throat  and  wrists:  her  small 
ringed  hands  touched  the  old  table  with 
firm  finger-tips. 

11  Begin  exactly  below  the  last  entry: 
under  the  P  of  Pepys.  Yes,  I  like  your 
hand,  David  Bold.  But  be  careful  not  to 
straggle." 

Bridget,  seated  on  the  top  step  of  the 
book-ladder,  in  a  large  print  apron,  looked 
down  on  the  pair  and  smiled. 

Thus,  morning  after  morning,  they 
worked  together.  In  the  afternoon  David 
was  here  alone.  He  had  grown  quite  used 
to  the  neat,  absorbing  employment;  to  the 
beloved  scent  of  old  books  and  the  clear 
light  from  the  high  window;  to  the  fine 
outlines  of  old  furniture  and  fittings,  and 
the  quiet  gaze  of  Sir  Humphrey  over  the 
mantel  in  the  gown  of  a  Doctor  of  Laws, 
seated  in  his  high-backed  chair  beside  the 
table  with  the  parchment  and  the  ink-horn ; 
used,  too,  though  not  so  quickly,  to  lunch- 


Denial  187 

eon  in  the  paneled  dining-room  with  the 
two  ladies,  the  serious  Bates  handing 
grave,  well-seasoned  dishes:  and  to  a 
dainty  breakfast  tray  when  he  reached  the 
library  at  seven-thirty  each  morning.  The 
boy  half  adored,  half  dreaded  the  simple, 
dignified  detail  of  this  ordered  life.  It 
was  almost  too  much  for  him.  He  was  re- 
fining every  day;  the  broken  nails  grow- 
ing, the  brown  fingers  firm  and  capable 
upon  the  long  quill  pen,  the  young  head 
handsomer.  At  moments  he  almost  knew 
it:  which  thrilled  him  with  a  shock  of 
fear.  For  he  was  William  Bold's  son 
still. 

"Do  you  think  of  taking  Orders,  David 
Bold?"  said  Miss  Nicholas,  one  morning, 
looking  up  from  the  neat  fixing  of  a  num- 
ber ticket.  Bridget  had  returned  home 
yesterday. 

David  was  a  trifle  startled. 

"I — hadn't,  Madam,"  he  said  lamely. 


i88  Bedesman  4 

(In  the  matter  of  address  you  could 
scarcely  go  wrong  with  Bates.) 

"What  do  you  wish  for?" 

"I  should  like  to  be  a  student,"  said 
David,  instantly ;  adding  at  once,  * '  but  I  'm 
not  able  to  afford  it." 

"It  doesn't  pay,"  said  Miss  Nicholas, 
thoughtfully,  "neither  does  the  Church, 
for  that  matter.  In  that  case,  what  have 
you  thought  of?  You  're  going  back  to 
school,  I  hope?" 

"I  'm  afraid  not,  Madam.  I  thought  of 
trying  my  chance  at  a  book-shop.  My 
mother  needs  what  I  can  make." 

"I  don't  like  that,"  said  Miss  Nicholas, 
with  a  touch  of  severity.  "You  're  a 
Bedesman.  You  should  go  to  Oxford. 
It  's  your  Founder's  money,  remember." 

A  quick  glance  went  as  in  appeal  to 
the  portrait.  David  flushed  to  the  roots 
of  his  hair. 

"He  'd  rather  you  acted  straight  than 


Denial  189 

went  to  Oxford,"  he  said  quickly,  without 
any  "Madam." 

The  Founder's  heiress  looked  quietly 
at  him.  After  a  moment's  silence,  she 
damped,  and  pressed  a  handkerchief  upon, 
another  neat  ticket. 

"You  are  right,  David  Bold,"  she  re- 
plied gravely,  and  silence  fell. 

After  half  an  hour's  work,  he  rose  to 
put  a  batch  of  books  in  their  shelf  for  her. 

"Some  of  those,"  she  remarked  quietly, 
"bear  directly  on  his  period.  Some  day 
I  want  a  Memoir  written  of  him.  I  have 
quantities  of  papers.  Will  you  do  it  for 
me,  David  Bold?" 

The  tall  boy  turned  round.  His  hands 
still  full  of  the  books,  he  gripped  them 
tight  lest,  in  his  excitement,  one  should  fall. 
He  stood  silent,  deprived  of  speech.  But 
her  eyes  dwelt  on  him.  "Well?"  she  said. 
Then  David  stirred. 

"Madam,"  he  answered,   steadily  and 


190  Bedesman  4 

clearly,  "I  will  do  it,  if  I  never  do  any- 
thing else  in  this  world." 

Through  the  golden  October  days, 
David  Bold  still  worked  in  the  Manor  li- 
brary, and  the  benches  of  Nicholas '  School 
knew  him  no  more. 

A  month  ago  a  stooping  man  on 
crutches  had  come  home  from  the  Infirm- 
ary. At  the  end  of  the  long  fight,  he  had 
lost  the  leg.  There  was  no  question  of 
sparing  David's  fifteen  shillings.  As  Nov- 
ember came  in,  the  crutches  were  dis- 
carded for  two  sticks,  then  for  one;  the 
doctor  at  the  hospital  discharged  the  pa- 
tient. 

"I  'm  goin'  up  quar'  to-morrow,"  the 
big  man  said  to  Esther  Bold ;  "  maybe  there 
might  be  a  little  job  as  I  could  do." 

There  was  a  dumb,  great  yearning  in 
his  tired  eyes.  Each  day  he  had  walked 
a  little  further,  till  now  the  wooden  leg 


Denial  191 

went  far;  but  who  would  employ  it?  The 
days  went  slowly.  Esther's  face  grew 
thinner.  Her  heart  was  full  of  fears  for 
her  husband,  the  strong  man  stricken  in 
his  strength. 

The  short  day  was  fading  when  he  came 
stumping  back  again.  Esther  at  the  table 
was  ironing  a  shirt  by  candle-light,  while 
David  came  and  went,  fetching  and  break- 
ing up  sticks  for  the  fire.  He  came  home 
at  dusk,  Madam  permitting  no  lights  in 
the  library. 

"Missus,"  said  William  Bold's  voice  in 
the  doorway,  "I  got  a  bit  o'  news  for 
ee." 

"What  is  it  then,  Father?"  she  an- 
swered, quietly:  but  David,  going  "out 
back,"  stood  still. 

"I  found  the  master  up  there.  Wilcox 
is  taking  on  Barley  Down  Quar';  and 
Fletcher  's  put  up  for  our  new  foreman : 
and  under-foreman's  place  is  to  fill. 


192  Bedesman  4 

'Could  you  do  it,  Bold?'  the  Master  says, 
— '  't  is  mainly  up  ground,  see,  loading  up 
carts  an'  the  weighings.'  'I  'd  be  main 
glad  to  try,  sir,'  I  says,  'but  a  wooden  leg 
ain't  a  man,  as  ever  I  heered  of.' 
'Might  do,  if  he  's  a  straight  'un,  like 
you,'  he  says,  'as  it  pays  a  man  to  take 
on.'  " 

"Praise  the  Lord,  my  dear!"  cried  Es- 
ther Bold,  her  iron  suspended  in  the  air. 
Setting  it  down,  she  saw  her  boy  in  the 
shadow  and  turned  quickly. 

"Thee  can  go  back  to  school,  now, 
child,"  she  said  instantly. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then, 
with  dry  lips,  David  answered, 

"Better  wait  a  week  or  two,  and  see  how 
Father  gets  on." 

David  stood  by  the  library  table,  wiping 
his  quill  pen  with  a  little  wad  of  blotting- 
paper.  Miss  Nicholas,  inspecting  the  last 


Denial  193 

written  pages   of  the  catalogue,  nodded. 

"Your  hand  has  improved,  David  Bold. 
Well,  I  am  very  glad  you  are  returning  to 
school. ' ' 

"I  shall  be  up  on  Saturday,  Madam,  by 
two  o'clock.  It  rs  light  under  that  win- 
dow well  till  half -past  four.  When  Christ- 
mas holidays  come,  I  can  be  here  every 
day." 

"Your  studies  must  not  suffer.  Other- 
wise I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you." 

David  smiled  quietly.  He  had  a  word 
more  to  say. 

"The  task  you  set  me,  Madam, — "  he 
glanced  towards  the  mantel.  "I  am  be- 
ginning to  see  my  way.  I  rm  afraid  it  's 
a  long  way,  if  the  thing  is  to  be  rightly 
done." 

Miss  Nicholas  raised  her  eyes.  ' '  Surely, 
David  Bold,  you  have  not  imagined  a 
school-boy  could  do  it?" 

' '  Of  course  not,  Madam.    But  he  can  be 


1Q4  Bedesman  4 

— contemplating  it,  and  preparing.  So 
long  as  you  know  that  lie  is." 

"I  have  every  confidence  in  you,  David 
Bold,"  said  the  small  old  lady  calmly. 

"Thank  you,  Madam,"  he  answered  with 
his  mother's  own  seriousness. 

"Good-by,  then,  for  the  present.  I 
wish  you  very  well." 

Together  they  left  the  long  room. 
David  took  his  cap  from  a  peg  and  went 
out  by  a  side  door  into  the  garden.  Miss 
Nicholas  turned  the  key  in  the  library 
door. 

The  boy  ran  down  the  terraces  with  a 
light  step,  emerging  close  to  the  London 
road.  Once  more,  pausing  on  the  hilltop, 
he  looked  down  on  the  home  of  his  spirit. 
Once  more  its  windows  twinkled  to  the  rosy 
farewell  of  the  sun,  the  long  roofs,  the 
bell-turret,  bathed  in  the  mellow  quiet  of 
an  autumn  evening.  Once  more,  a  son  of 
learning  went  down  the  hill,  with  a  swell- 


Denial  195 

ing  heart ;  lie  knew  himself  much  more  than 
three  years  older. 

The  Master,  who  happened  to  be  talking 
to  the  porter,  greeted  him  warmly;  and  he 
took  up  Granny  Fielder's  trunk  and 
dragged  it  upstairs. 

The  little  square  room  was  very  quiet, 
the  inkstand  on  the  table,  the  armchair  in 
its  place,  as  though  no  one  had  touched 
them  since  this  day  four  months,  when  St. 
Margaret's  sun  shone  in.  On  the  door  a 
Bedesman's  gown  hung,  his  cap  above 
it. 

1  'You  're  a  sight  for  sair  e'en,"  Bridget 
said,  the  next  afternoon,  as  she  turned 
homewards  from  Miss  Fletcher's  door  and 
met  David  coming  through  the  meadow. 
' i  Good  luck  and  many  of  them !  You  look 
as  if  you  liked  yourself." 

*  *  I  feel  a  bit  younger, ' '  he  answered  with 
a  laugh. 


196  Bedesman  4 

"I  daresay.  You  Ve  had  a  bad  time. 
But  it  's  over." 

David  seemed  to  reflect. 

"I  wouldn't  have  gone  without  it,"  he 
said;  "it  's  beastly  good  for  one  to  hate 
things  for  a  bit." 

After  this  somewhat  cryptic  utterance 
he  began  to  pull  a  stick  out  of  the  hedge. 

"I  rm  two  men,  after  all,"  he  remarked, 
searching  for  his  knife:  "I  suppose  I  al- 
ways shall  be. — I  say,  Bridget,  I  want  to 
come  and  have  a  talk  about  that  library. 
I  Ve  a  thing  ahead  of  me." 


Book  IV 
Gwen 


PROFESSOR  BROWNLOW'S  room 
in  College  was  on  the  first  floor.  It 
looked  out  on  the  Chapel  quad,  towards 
the  north.  A  projecting  gargoyle — a  devil 
with  prominent  teeth  and  an  engaging  as- 
pect— looked  obliquely  in  at  the  oriel  win- 
dow, which  was  approached  by  two  steps 
from  the  long,  high  room.  Large  book- 
desks,  bearing  each  its  open  folio,  stood  in 
two  corners;  the  long  writing-table  was 
piled  with  leather-bound  books  and  neat 
stacks  of  written  and  printed  matter;  on 
the  wall  behind  it  hung  a  beautiful  and  elab- 
orate pipe-rack,  in  carved  cherrywood. 
The  high  and  spacious  chamber's  furniture 
was  mainly  old  and  curious:  much  of  it 
beautiful,  some  of  it  rather  ramshackle. 
199 


2OO  Bedesman  4 

The  Professor  sat  at  the  table  in  a  well- 
worn  revolving-chair.  His  gown,  faded  by 
long  use  to  a  fine  green,  lay  over  the  chair- 
back.  His  M.  A.  hood,  in  yet  worse  repair, 
hung  upon  a  door-peg.  The  tidiest  of  men 
will  fail  to  regard  academicals  as  really 
part  of  his  clothing.  There  was  about 
Professor  Brownlow's  appearance,  mind, 
and  habits  a  kind  of  crazy  neatness,  on 
which,  however,  as  neatness,  no  dependence 
could  be  placed.  His  Professorship  rep- 
resented a  remote  corner  of  the  field  of 
historical  research. 

In  a  row  of  old  Chippendale  chairs 
against  the  opposite  wall  sat  nine  young 
men.  The  Professor  was  discoursing,  an 
elbow  on  the  table,  his  fingers  buried  in 
his  thick  gray  hair. 

"Yes — you  '11  find  your  work  cut  out, — >r 
he  was  saying,  with  some  feeling. 

The  man  on  the  chair  nearest  the  door, 
though  he  was  attending,  let  his  eyes 


Gwen  201 

wander  over  the  room  and  out  of  the  win- 
dow. The  gargoyle's  expression,  fore- 
shortened, brought  a  smile  to  his  lips. 
Then  his  look  came  back  to  the  Profes- 
sor and  he  became  absorbed  in  the  matter 
of  his  future  studies. 

When  the  talk  was  finished,  the  men  went 
away  one  by  one,  each  after  a  moment  or 
two  given  to  his  personal  concerns.  A  red- 
headed youth,  the  last  but  one,  spoke  rather 
volubly  for  some  minutes,  in  an  accent  un- 
known to  the  other.  When,  the  door  hav- 
ing closed  upon  him,  the  last  man  and  the 
Professor  were  left  alone,  their  conversa- 
tion was  short  and  technical,  till  the  Pro- 
fessor, pressing  certain  advice,  happened 
to  glance  up.  His  look  changed :  he  seemed 
for  a  moment  puzzled,  and  about  to  lose 
his  thread.  Glancing  at  a  filled-in  form, 
which  the  pupil  had  handed  over,  he 
seemed  to  see  light. 

"Why,"   he    said,   reflectively   contem- 


202  Bedesman  4 

plating  him,  "the  last  time  I  saw  you — " 

"I  wore  a  white  smock-frock,"  said  the 
young  man,  and  smiled. 

The  Professor  experienced  a  slight 
shock,  distinctly  pleasurable. 

"To  be  sure.  Cut- throat  Lane,  wasn't 
it?" 

"Bloody  Lane." 

"Ah,  yes,  and  Pike's  Piece.  I  'm  al- 
ways glad  to  see  a  Nicholas  Scholar. 
Went  in  on  my  nomination,  didn't  you? 
How  's  Fletcher?  I  believe  I  had  a  note 
from  him — " 

"He  's  well  and  vigorous,  like  the  school. 
He  desired  his  kind  regards  to  you,  sir, 
and  hoped  you  might  be  going  down." 

' '  One  of  these  days,  perhaps.  Why,  yes, 
he  said  you  'd  been  helping  to  straighten 
that  library.  He  took  me  to  see  it  once; 
when  there  were  tenants  in  the  house. 
There  are  good  things  hidden  away  there. 
Long  may  they  stay!" 


Gwen  203 

"Miss  Nicholas  will  see  to  that,"  the 
pupil  said. 

When  he  was  gone,  the  Professor  hung 
up  his  gown.  He  was  smiling.  ' 1 1  wonder 
if  he  '11  stay  like  that.  Hope  so.  I  shall 
keep  that  tale  dark :  not  that  it  would  hurt 
him.  Might  do  him  too  much  good, — with 
some  people." 

In  the  street,  before  the  College  gate- 
way, his  pupil  paused  to  consult  a  slip  of 
paper  from  his  waistcoat  pocket :  glancing 
up,  he  saw  his  red-headed  neighbor  on  the 
opposite  pavement,  and  crossed. 

"Could  you  tell  me  my  way?" 

"That  '11  depend,"  said  the  Scot,  with 
portentous  gravity,  "on  where  you  '11  be 
wanting  to  go. — Eh?  is  that  it?  I  'm  go- 
ing myself  in  that  direction." 

The  lane  they  presently  reached  seemed 
to  be  all  turnings.  It  went  under  a  long 
wall  over  which  looked  yellowing  trees, 
then  past  an  ancient  church,  with  a  square, 


204  Bedesman  4 

oddly-narrowing  tower,  in  its  graveyard. 

' '  They  sent  me  a  wrong  address.  When 
I  went  the  people  were  full,"  said  David; 
"they  wanted  a  pot  of  money  too." 

"If  ye  're  seeking  something  reason- 
able," said  the  Scot,  "there  's  a  set  at 
the  top  where  I  am,  not  a  smart  set,  but 
ye  have  the  air,  and  quiet.  I  came  up  three 
days  back.  For  the  people,"  he  added 
thoughtfully,  "I  would  not  say  I  'd  any- 
thing against  them  this  far." 

"Many  thanks.    Along  this  way?" 

"Number  14.  The  yellow  house.  I  Ve 
business  in  here,"  said  the  other  and 
nodded  as  he  left  him. 

The  yellow  house  was  tall  and  had  stone 
mullions  and  casements.  In  the  passage, 
where  the  bell  jangled,  a  girl  of  fifteen  put 
a  tousled  head  out  of  a  door,  behind  which 
something  savory  frizzled  loudly. 

"They  're  upstairs,"  she  observed 
vaguely  and  withdrew.  After  waiting  a 


Gwen  205 

few  moments,  David  thought  he  had  better 
go  after  them. 

Halfway  up,  an  open  door  showed  a 
Gladstone  bag  inscribed  "D.  Cameron." 
He  went  on,  arriving  at  a  tiny  landing, 
which  seemed  all  window  and  a  prospect 
of  waving  trees. 

Through  another  open  door  he  saw  a 
low  room  with  a  sloping  attic-like  ceiling 
and  two  windows.  An  old  worn  carpet 
covered  somewhat  uneven  boards :  beyond 
a  table  with  drawers  and  a  red  table-cloth 
were  an  old  cushioned  wooden  armchair, 
and  a  glazed  cupboard  showing  teacups. 
But  he  did  not  look  at  these  things.  Be- 
fore the  fireplace,  with  her  back  to  him, 
stood  a  small  elderly  woman  in  an  old 
black  dress;  she  had  raised  herself  on 
what  would  have  been  tiptoe  but  for  the 
four-inch  sole  and  heel  of  one  boot:  and 
her  fingers  were  traveling  slowly,  inti- 
mately, over  the  cheap  ornaments,  the  dyed 


206  Bedesman  4 

grasses,  the  Bee  clock  which  adorned  the 
mantelshelf. 

"The  china  shepherdess,"  she  was  mut- 
tering, "her  crook  's  got  chipped.  These 
fluffy  things  fair  smell  of  dust — " 

David,  waiting  for  her  to  turn  round, 
became  aware  that  she  would  not.  He 
spoke. 

"They  sent  me  upstairs  to  find  you." 

The  small  woman  started  round,  the 
lame  foot  slipping  on  the  loose  hearthrug. 
She  would  have  fallen,  and  caught  wildly 
at  the  first  thing  that  touched  her,  David's 
outstretched  arm,  to  which  she  clung  as 
for  dear  life. 

"Here  's  the  chair,"  he  said,  and  low- 
ered her  into  it,  where  she  sat  panting,  a 
hand  on  her  side,  shaken  and  silent,  David 
standing  by. 

"Thank  you  very  much,  I  'm  sure,"  she 
said  at  length,  slowly,  "and  pray,  who  is 
it?  I  can't  see  you  a  bit.  It 's  cataract, 


Gwen  207 

both  eyes.    I  do  tumble  about  so  bad — " 

"My  name  's  Bold.  Mr.  Cameron  ad- 
vised me  to  come  and  see  your  rooms. 
This  is  the  set,  I  suppose." 

Her  face  began  to  beam  irrepressibly. 
"Yes,  the  bedroom  's  through  that  door, 
if  you  would  n't  mind  looking.  What  Col- 
lege, please?" 

David,  after  investigating  the  tiny  but 
spotless  place  indicated,  came  back  to  en- 
quire prices. 

"I  '11  let  you  have  them  at  that, ' '  she  said 
thoughtfully.  "I  think  you  're  a  kind 
man,  saving  me  a  fall  like  that.  Men  are 
so  different.  And,  being  as  I  am,  I  'd 
rather  have  one  that  was  considerate  than 
a  little  more  money.  Oh,  yes,  I  Ve  a 
helper — or  shall  have,  now  I  Ve  let  both 
sets.  It  was  little  Annie  you  saw  down- 
stairs, my  niece.  Then  will  you  come  in 
to-night,  sir?" 

"Yes,  please,  I  '11  bring  my  box  round." 


2o8  Bedesman  4 

He  was  looking  over  the  pathetic  little  fig- 
ure, with  an  understanding  of  her  disabil- 
ities born  of  village  days.  "Now,  if 
you're  going  down,  hadn't  you  better 
have  my  arm?  You  're  very  clever  to 
have  got  up." 

"Oh,  I  can  climb,"  she  answered,  with 
a  touch  of  scorn;  "going  down  is  different. 
I  sit  on  the  top  step  and  let  myself  down 
one  by  one.  I  must  come  up,  you  see,  when 
term  begins,  to  see  it 's  all  clean.  I  can't 
abide  dirt  and  dust!  You  can  sweep,  if 
you  are  poor." 

He  piloted  her  safely  to  a  tiny  back  room 
on  the  ground  floor,  where  she  appeared 
to  live,  learning  on  the  way  yet  further  de- 
tails. At  the  stairf oot  they  parted  friends. 
When,  that  evening,  his  effects  unpacked, 
he  sat  beside  a  bright  little  lamp  review- 
ing the  work  before  him,  he  felt  strangely 
at  home.  Through  the  further  open  win- 
dow, came  in  a  great  daddy  long-legs,  bent 


Gwen  209 

on  self-destruction.  David,  expelling  him, 
received  in  full  face  a  deep  breath  of  au- 
tumnal savors  from  the  great  College  gar- 
den opposite,  where  ampelopsis  began  to 
redden  over  an  ancient  brick  wall. 

Then,  solemn  and  treble,  near  and  dis- 
tant, the  voices  of  Oxford  bells  rang  and 
spoke  the  hour:  and  he  knew  that  all  day 
long,  around  all  the  new  ideas,  amid  all 
preoccupation,  their  music  had  been  there, 
clear  or  deep.  He  went  back  to  his  chair 
and  thought  he  had  begun  to  read  again, 
when  one  deep  tone  spoke,  thrilling  through 
the  little  room,  as  though  close  at  hand, 
grave,  reverberant,  alone. 

As  the  solemn  century  of  strokes  passed, 
David  sat  spellbound.  When  they  ceased, 
he  knew  deep  within  him  that  he  was 
gathered  in.  The  age-long  glamor  of 
Oxford  held  him  once  and  forever,  her- 
alded by  the  great  voice  of  Tom. 

Mrs.  Randall  continued  to  approve  of 


21O  Bedesman  4 

her  lodger,  who  astonished  her  next  mid- 
day by  rapping  at  her  door  with  the  in- 
formation that  he  was  going  upstairs  and 
could  take  his  coal-box  with  him.  When 

f 

she  asked,  "Hadn't  Annie?"  he  opined 
seriously  that  it  was  n  't  work  for  a  girl :  he 
would  carry  the  thing  each  day,  if  she  'd 
tell  him  where  to  find  it. 

The  hours  and  the  days  filled  themselves 
as  by  magic,  in  a  life  become  wholly  new. 
In  the  third  week,  a  chance  word  suddenly 
waked  David  to  the  thought  of  Bridget.  It 
was  some  months  since  he  had  seen  her. 
She  had  come  up  a  year  ago  with  a  scholar- 
ship. His  last  two  absorbing  terms  at 
school  had  been  empty  of  her  company.  At 
first  he  had  missed  her  badly :  and  his  mind 
turned  to  her  now  with  keen  satisfaction. 
He  wondered  how  to  proceed,  then  decided 
to  go  and  call  on  her,  as  soon  as  he  had 
time. 

The  University  year  opened  with  a  few 


Gwen  211 

golden  weeks  of  "mists  and  mellow  fruit- 
fulness,"  full  of  Oxford's  purest  hours  of 
beauty.  On  a  calm  Sunday  afternoon 
David,  Ms  country  soul  avoiding  the  too 
populous  Parks,  turned  between  two  black 
posts  heading  a  narrow  roadway.  It  was 
on  the  first  of  "Mesopotamia's"  friendly 
benches  that  a  couple  of  girls  attracted  his 
eye.  One,  rising,  was  saying  good-by  to 
the  other.  He  recognized  the  figure  she 
had  left,  and  quickened  his  pace. 

"Bridget!"  he  said.  "This  is  a  piece 
of  luck!" 

He  sat  down  eagerly  beside  her.  The 
girl,  trim  and  dainty  in  a  pearl-gray  Sun- 
day frock  and  hat,  met  him  as  he  came. 
He  saw  that  her  eyes  were  older,  her  out- 
lines more  pronounced  and  womanly,  that 
she  was  a  person  definitely  in  her  own  pos- 
session: but  behind  and  beyond  stood  Brid- 
get, his  friend.  He  waked  up  into  keen 
interest. 


212  Bedesman  4 

"I  am  glad  I  met  you.  I  was  coming 
to  call.  I  Ve  seen  your  abode,  from  a  dis- 
tance. ' ' 

Her  eyes  filled  with  laughter. 

''Were  you?"  she  said.  "Where  are 
you?  in  College,  I  suppose!" 

"In  digs,  till  Easter,  I  expect.  I  '11  give 
you  the  address.  I  say," — as  a  cheerful 
family  party,  the  junior  members  in  a  go- 
cart,  passed,  rubbing  his  knees — "is  there 
any  place  where  we  could  be  quiet?  I  Ve 
lots  to  say, — and  hear."  > 

Bridget's  eyes  considered:  again  that 
demure  and  mocking  smile.  "There  's 
Marston  Ferry  just  round  the  corner. 
We  can  get  into  the  fields  that  way — if  you 
like  to." 

"To  be  sure  I  do." 

A  pair  of  small  children  took  much  joy 
in  sending  the  ferry-boat  back  for  them, 
on  its  rattling  wheel;  and  a  few  minutes 
took  them  into  meadows  not  all  unlike  those 


Gwen  213 

at  home.  David  went  on,  talking  eagerly: 
but  slowly  there  gathered  round  him  some- 
thing strange,  a  little  chill,  that  puzzled 
him.  It  seemed  to  be  making  him  not  him- 
self. Yet  Bridget  seemed  younger  here 
in  the  fields.  He  knew  her  again  with  the 
delicious  stimulus  that  comes  of  picking 
up  old  stitches.  And  yet  that  odd  feeling 
kept  him  from  being  at  ease.  It  seemed 
somehow  to  associate  itself  with  Bridget's 
little  smile. 

At  length  she  turned. 

"I  must  get  back.  I  had  six  calls  to 
make!  And  I  'm  engaged  for  tea." 

"When  can  we  meet  again?  I  want  to 
show  you — " 

That  smile  came  again. 

"I  should  love  to  see  it.  I  must.  But — 
my  dear  man,  you  have  yet  to  understand. 
"We  are  hedged  round  with  regulations. 
You  see,  you  're  an  undergraduate. ' ' 

"Well?"    David  was   ashamed   of  the 


214  Bedesman  4 

sudden   discomfort   that  came   over   him. 

"I  'm  not  supposed  to  meet  you,  you  see, 
without — I  can  ask  you  to  tea,  but  I  must 
ask  some  one  else  too." 

"Why  on  earth—?" 

"To  make  propriety.  It  's  absurd, 
every  one  knows  it  is — never  mind,  I  can 
get  Miss  Willis :  you  '11  like  her.  When 
can  you  come!" 

"But,  I  say — shan't  we  have  any 
talk?" 

Bridget  looked  at  him  ruefully,  her  head 
on  one  side.  "I  don't  know.  We  '11  try 
for  it.  I  '11  think  and  let  you  know.  I 
must  go  now,  David." 

David,  far  from  recovered,  shook  hands. 

"Good-by.  I  shall  be  reduced  to  writ- 
ing to  you." 

She  went  back  across  the  fields.  He  was 
aware  in  himself  with  an  intense  annoy- 
ance that  she  would  prefer  his  not  follow- 
ing her.  He  sat  down  under  the  hedge, 


Gwen  215 

embracing  his  knees  and  staring  angrily 
in  front  of  him.  Why  should  he  be  de- 
prived of  his  Bridget,  any  more  than  if 
she  were  a  man?  What  did  the — the  old 
cats  think  he  would  do  to  her?  Bridget; 
neither  sister  nor  sweetheart,  simply  con- 
fidante and  sound,  peace-bringing  friend. 

A  young  pair,  strolling  past,  with  hands 
and  arms  intertwined,  answered  him.  A 
sudden,  consuming  anger,  such  as  only 
stupidity  can  wake,  smote  him. 

Then  a  veil  seemed  to  lift.  This  dear 
new  world  with  its  regulations,  its  un- 
spoken laws,  moving  kind  and  stately  on 
its  time-old  and  unconscious  way — he  was 
scarcely  at  the  beginning  of  understand- 
ing it.  With  the  thought  came  a  sharp 
moment  of  new  knowledge.  There  was 
another,  a  coming  world  of  youth  and 
maiden,  of  which  so  far  he  knew,  and  meant 
to  know,  still  less.  Apart  altogether  from 
its  rules,  silly  or  wise,  its  concerns  were 


216  Bedesman  4 

for  no  poor  scholar  as  yet,  thank  heaven. 
No !  he  and  Bridget  had  nothing  to  do  with 
that! 

Then  rather  suddenly  he  remembered 
that  he  had  been  asked  to  tea  "some  Sun- 
day" by  his  tutor's  wife;  finding  her  ad- 
dress in  his  pocket-book,  he  recrossed  the 
ferry,  and  found  his  way  towards  Nor- 
ham  Eoad,  where  for  a  somewhat  crowded, 
but  quite  pleasant  hour,  he  handed  cups 
to  bright-eyed  girls  and  pleasant  ladies, 
and  mixed,  chatting,  with  a  friendly  group 
of  his  own  kind.  He  had  lost  his  boyish 
shyness,  and  more  and  more  found  society 
an  attractive  thing. 

#         *         *         * 

The  window-seat  was  cushioned  in  a 
deep  blue ;  and  unlined  curtains  of  the  same 
serge  filled  and  stirred  in  the  mild  Octo- 
ber air.  The  room,  not  large,  seemed  full 
of  fresh  air  and  space, — the  result  of  the 
considerate  furnishing  and  fine  taste  of 


Gwen  217 

one  person,  not  stinted  for  money :  a  quiet 
place,  workmanlike,  dainty,  and  full  of  a 
definite  character,  hung  with  a  few  water- 
colors  full  of  suggestion,  and  all  by  one 
hand.  One,  a  tall,  narrow  picture  of  an 
Italian  landscape,  over  the  mantel,  seemed 
to  gather  up  and  hold  the  room's  meaning. 

A  girl  sat,  with  her  feet  up,  on  the  win- 
dow-seat, balancing  a  cup  of  tea  on  the 
fingers  of  one  hand. 

"My  dear  Gwen,"  she  observed,  as  an- 
other maiden  brought  her  food,  "where  do 
you  go  for  chocolate  biscuits?  Take  it 
away!  I  'm  greedy." 

"So  am  I,"  said  a  slim  creature,  in  an 
exquisite  lilac  frock,  reaching  a  hand  from 
a  deep  chair.  "Did  you  say  Bridget  was 
coming?  There  '11  be  none  left  for  her. 
Phyllis,  you  're  real  nice  doing  all  the 
handing. ' ' 

"You  Tre  tired,  Lucy, — leave  the  cake- 
stand  alone." 


218  Bedesman  4 

"I  guess  it 's  a  sleepy  afternoon,"  said 
Lucy,  sinking  back,  "and  this  is  a  sleepy 
chair. ' ' 

The  girl  on  the  window-seat,  looking  out 
across  a  green  and  ordered  lawn  at  slowly- 
changing  poplars  and  a  softly  gorgeous 
beech,  here  announced,  "There  's  Brid- 
get coming — where  I  can  just  squint  round 
the  corner.  Please  may  I  have  some  more 
tea?" 

A  tall  young  woman  in  white  serge 
turned  from  the  low  table  to  receive  the 
cup.  There  are  faces  that,  turning  round, 
seem  to  alter  all  the  values  of  a  scene. 
This  was  low-browed,  soft  masses  of  chest- 
nut-brown hair  sweeping  up  and  back  on 
the  broad  temples.  The  eyes,  gray,  wide, 
candid,  under  white,  arched  lids,  were  the 
eyes  of  an  Englishwoman  built  on  broad, 
calm  lines.  The  finely-molded  lips  met 
gravely.  The  beautiful  head,  which  had 
the  little  droop  forward  given  to  certain 


Gwen  219 

Burne-Jones  angels,  seemed  always  to  be 
seeking  something  to  be  kind  to. 

' '  That  little  old  woman  at  the  corner  by 
Sargent's  made  the  biscuits, — and  the 
cakes,"  she  answered,  a  little  late,  "Mrs. 
Franks.  Her  daughter  's  my  aunt's  maid. 
She  '11  be  glad  of  orders." 

"That  's  Bridget  on  the  stairs,"  said 
Phyllis,  "hear  the  co-educational  whistle !" 

A  chorus  of  laughter  greeted  the  new- 
comer, who  dropped  into  a  chair  near  the 
tea-maker,  and  drew  off  her  long  gloves. 

"No  sugar,  dear  angel.  Co-education, 
indeed !  Sorry  I  'm  late,  but  I  fell  in  with 
the  nicest  school-friend  I  ever  had,  and 
had  to  tell  him  he  must  not  come  and  see 
me !  Lord,  what  fools  these — rules  do  be ! 
Thanks,  my  hat  will  go  here.  Just  a  tinge 
more  milk,  beloved.  How  cool  and  sweet 
your  room  is!" 

"What  's  his  name?"  from  the  girl  in 
the  window. 


220  Bedesman  4 

"David — Bold,  I  mean.  He  's  just  come 
up  to  Cuthbert's.  Professor  Brownlow 
thinks  the  world  of  him.  Phyllis,  how  did 
you  like  'Varsity  sermon?  I  almost 
laughed  once." 

It  appeared  that  all  but  every  one  had  at 
least  criticized.  For  a  minute,  they  all 
spoke  together.  When  this  ceased,  they 
seemed  to  have  descended  into  the  depths 
of  things.  The  talk  grew  eagerly,  excit- 
ingly serious.  Cups  gradually  emptied  or 
were  forgotten.  Phyllis,  the  cake-stand 
put  aside,  defended  the  doctrine  of  Free- 
Will  fervently,  from  the  arm  of  Gwen's 
low  chair :  on  the  ground  that ( l  only  a  cow- 
like  person  wants  to  be  run."  Bridget 
held  she  would  only  be  thankful;  the 
trouble  was  that  you  were  usually  driven. 

" Speak,  dearie,"  she  said  in  a  pause, 
two  fingers  on  Gwen's  knee.  The  wide 
smile  that  answered  her  was  all  but 
motherly. 


Gwen  221 

"Things  are  mostly — all  right,"  said 
Gwen,  in  her  deep,  low  voice.  * '  Of  course, 
you  must  have  patience.  It 's  a  sad  pity 
to  lose  all  the  lovely  detail  by  the 
way. ' ' 

"I  wonder,"  said  Bridget,  still  sitting 
there,  when  talk  had  died  and  the  rest  had 
all  slipped  away,  "why  you  are  such  a 
rest,  Gwen?  You  're  scarcely  older  than 
me,  as  real  oldness  goes.  It  must  be  that 
you  're  bigger." 

"You  shouldn't  go  living  as  fast  as 
Lucy  does.  It  is  n't  English ;  and  we  can't 
stand  it.  Besides,  you  haven't  yet  taken 
time  to  possess  your  soul  in  peace — 
no,  I  'm  right,  never  since  you  came  up. 
And  just  now  you  're  worried,  child 
mine. ' ' 

"Perhaps  I  am.  It  was  rather  hateful 
meeting  David  like  that.  He  did  n't  under- 
stand. ' ' 

"Was  it  only  a  minute's  talk!" 


222  Bedesman  4 

"Dear,  no!  I  walked  him  into  the  fields 
over  Marston  Ferry,  just  as  though  we  'd 
been  an  Oxford  maidservant  and  her  "fel- 
low"! Think  how  pleased  some  people 
would  be!  And  at  home  he  has  had  the 
run  of  the  house.  We  've  been  friends 
since  he  first  went  to  school — with  Ned. 
I  Ve  seen  him  through  all  his  troubles  and 
been  his  critic  these  six  years:  he  has 
brought  up  things  he  has  been  writing  to 
show  me.  And  we  can't  meet!  Gwen — 
what  would  you  do?" 

Gwen  looked  out  of  the  window:  then 
cast  a  quick  glance  at  her  friend  and 
smiled. 

"I  suppose  I  shouldn't  do  anything; 
Solvitur  ambulando.  But  I  believe  more 
in  sitting  still.  Of  course  it 's  unlucky  for 
us,  and  rather  silly,  that  first  rules  can't 
be  altered,  till  the  new  world  has  come  in 
and  re-made  all  rules  to  fit  itself.  But 
that  happens  in  every  generation.  Of 


Gwen  223 

course,  there  's  no  earthly  harm  in  Mars- 
ton  Ferry,  your  father  knowing  all  about 
you.  But—" 

"I  know.  One  must  be  straight  for  the 
sake  of  the  place,  even  if  every  authority 
privately  thought  as  we  do.  It  's  tire- 
some, though.  David  has  all  but  finished 
a  memoir  of  our  Founder.  He  has  been 
working  at  it  three  years  in  the  family 
library  in  holiday  time." 

"A  freshman ?" 

"Yes.  He  's  a  quite  big  person,  they 
say.  The  School 's  done  everything  for 
him.  If  he  had  a  statue  of  the  Founder, 
he  'd  burn  incense  to  it.  His  people  are 
poor." 

Bridget's  mouth  closed  suddenly.  She 
was  thinking  of  the  look  of  the  strong 
dark-eyed  man  she  had  seen.  "Who  would 
notice  any  difference  from  other  fresh- 
men ?  Till  she  knew  David  had  spoken  of 
home,  his  friend  would  say  no  word.  Men 


224  Bedesman  4 

come  and  go  from  the  University  in  silence 
on  their  most  vital  matters. 

"That  's  rather  beautiful,"  said  Gwen 
quietly.  "I  should  like  to  know  him." 

"You  would  mix,  for  all  your  differ- 
ences. What  's  that  striking?  Gwen, 
shall  we  read  something?  Shall  I  fetch 
Peer  Gynt?"  She  went,  while  Gwen 
moved  in  the  room,  shaking  cushions  and 
straightening  a  table-cloth. 

"Yes,"  she  reflected,  "he  wants  her, 
very  likely,  now,  but  she  '11  soon  leave  off 
wanting  him.  The  child  's  growing,  bless 
her,  and  it  will  take  all  sorts  to  make 
Bridget's  world.  Besides — she  has  a 
home."  Gwen  stood  still,  looking  from 
the  window.  "I  wish" — two  large  tears 
stood  suddenly  on  her  cheeks.  "Yes,  I 
wish  Dad  had  waited  a  little  longer  down 
here.  "What  am  I  thinking  about?  How 
he  might  have  suffered !  And  the  dear  old 
aunt  and  uncle — " 


Gwen  225 

She  sighed  and  shut  the  window.  Left 
alone,  she  had  come  here  of  her  own 
choice  to  read  history,  and  "to  learn 
what  the  real  world  was  like,  for  a  girl 
with  her  own  money,"  as  the  others  put 
it.  Home  or  none,  Gwen  dwelt  in  her 
friends'  hearts,  tho'  her  own  was  too  big 
not  to  be  a  little  lonesome.  The  restful, 
white-painted  room  heard  many  confi- 
dences, and  more  "good  talks." 

"Come  in,  Bridget,  child,"  she  said, 
turning.  "We  Ve  nearly  an  hour." 


XI 

THE  long  and  stately  Hall  of  Cuth- 
bert's,  between  nine  and  ten  one 
spring  night,  was  alive  with,  a  loud  noise  of 
talking:  brilliant  with  electric  light,  and! 
with  the  bold,  yet  dainty  colors  in  vogue 
that  year.  The  crowd  was  increasing;  the 
demand  for  coffee-cups  lessening.  The 
great  foreigner,  in  whose  honor  the  College 
opened  her  gates,  had  done  his  speaking; 
and,  conspicuous  in  his  broad  ribbon, 
moved  round  the  great  room  with  a  small, 
bright-eyed,  be-diamonded  woman  on  his 
arm. 

David  Bold  was   relieved  from  active 

politenesses.     His  tall  head  glancing  over 

the  throng,  he  saw,  not  far  from  him,  in  a 

corner  veiled  from  the  room's  blaze  by  a 

226 


Gwen  227 

heavy,  drooping  curtain,  a  little  living  pic- 
ture. A  girl  in  a  curiously  graceful  dress 
of  dull  white  satin  heavily  furnished  with 
gold  embroidery  sat  in  conversation  with 
Professor  Brownlow,  hirsute  and  shaggy 
as  of  old.  The  girPs  long-gloved  hands 
lay  in  her  lap ;  she  sat  very  still,  as  people 
sit  with  whom  stillness  is  less  a  habit,  or  a 
conscious  courtesy,  than  part  of  a  charac- 
ter. Her  head  was  raised :  David  saw  it 
in  profile.  As  he  looked,  the  rest  of  the 
thronged  room  became  a  kind  of  dream. 
His  eyes  were  on  a  face,  in  outline,  pose, 
detail,  very  beautiful;  but  it  was  less 
beauty  that  held  him  than  the  grace  of  a 
certain  turn  of  expression,  half  spiritual, 
half  graciously  protecting,  that  went  to 
his  heart.  This  lovely  stranger  seemed 
to  him  a  thing  known,  almost  belonging 
to  him.  For  that  look,  combined  with  that 
calm  stillness  of  pose,  belonged  to  an- 
other woman — 


228  Bedesman  4 

An  amused  voice  spoke  near  him: 

"How  do  you  do,  David.  You  're  look- 
ing1 at  my  friend,  Gwen.  Isn't  she 
lovely?" 

"Do  you  see  any  likeness  to  my 
mother?"  said  David,  as  one  in  a  dream. 
The  Professor  beckoned  to  him,  and  he 
moved. 

Bridget  watched  him,  her  lips  twitching. 
"Why,  David,  good  lad,"  was  her  in- 
ward comment,  "don't  they  say  that 's 
the  biggest  compliment  a  man  can  pay  a 
woman  ? ' ' 

The  Professor  was  rising. 

"Bold,  Miss  Brydon  wishes  you  intro- 
duced to  her.  She  is  Founder's  kin,  and 
you  must  show  her  the  portrait.  A  copy, 
Miss  Brydon,  no  more.  The  original  is 
better  known  to  you  than  to  me,  eh,  Bold?" 

"That  's  true,"  said  David,  as  one  in  a 
dream ;  then  as  the  Professor  shook  hands, 
taking  his  leave,  he  turned,  and  found  her 


Gwen  229 

wide  and  lovely  eyes,  warm  with  interest, 
upon  him. 

"The  picture  is  on  the  south  wall,"  he 
said;  "you  will  see  it  best  if  you  will  come 
this  way."  Beyond  a  long  refreshment- 
table,  he  set  a  chair  for  her.  * '  There  he  is. 
The  original  Holbein  hangs  in  my  old 
school,  but  this  is  quite  good." 

"It  is  reproduced  in  your  book,  of 
course."  David's  color  flamed  and  she 
smiled.  "A  friend  at  my  College  lent  it 
me,  Bridget  Burton — you  were  speaking 
to  her  just  now." 

He  smiled  now  too,  embarrassment  pass- 
ing away. 

"Bridget  knew  me  first  when  I  wore  a 
facsimile  of  that  all  day,  as  one  of  his 
'Bedesmen.'  She  had  much  to  do  with 
that  book,  for  she  's  a  stern  critic.  You 
will  know  Miss  Nicholas  too,  his  present 
representative.  It  was  she  who  set  me  to 
write  it." 


230  Bedesman  4 

"Alas,  no!  I  suppose  I  must  confess 
the  truth.  There  has  been  a  sort  of 
family  feud,  from  my  great  grandfather's 
time,  who  took  the  name  of  Brydon  for 
some  property.  The  Nicholases  didn't 
forgive  him  nor  his  son.  But  I  hope  by 
now  she  would  shake  hands  if  we  met.  Or 
her  successor.  Bridget  tells  me  the  suc- 
cession is  doubtful." 

He  sighed.  "It  depends  on  her  will. 
The  entail  was  broken  some  time  back,  and 
now  there  is  no  male  heir.  She  seems 
equally  friends  with  all  her  known 
cousins." 

"Or  with  none,"  said  Gwen,  smiling. 
"Won't  you  sit  down,  Mr.  Bold — there  is 
a  chair — and  may  I  ask  you  something?" 

He  drew  the  chair  up,  waiting.  Still 
the  sense  of  unknown  things,  of  a  dream, 
was  upon  him.  This  simple  talk  was  un- 
like any  other  in  his  life.  Her  deep,  gentle 
tone  thrilled  him  like  the  sound  of  Tom. 


Gwen  231 

He  could  have  listened  to  her  for  ever, 
even  had  she  spoken  an  unknown  lan- 
guage. 

"I  want  to  know  how,  given  all  possible 
musty  documents,  you  managed  to  make 
that  simple  little  book  a  work  of  art,  a 
series  of  pictures?  It  is  quite  amazingly 
convincing. ' ' 

He  showed  no  touch  of  shyness  now, 
but  answered  after  an  instant's  thought. 

"I  'm  afraid  that  is  just  what  is  the  mat- 
ter with  the  book.  I  Ve  thought  about 
him  ever  since  I  went  to  school;  then 
came  the  library  and  the  papers; 
you  wouldn't  call  them  musty  if  you  had 
read  them.  At  length  the  whole  thing 
was  so  alive  that,  when  I  came  to  write 
a  book  about  it,  it  almost  got  in  my  way. 
It  would  be  all  the  same  if  it  were  all 
utterly  wrong.  I  couldn't  alter  it.  It 
has  convinced  me:  and  now  I  'm  helpless. 
That  is  how  I  come  at  things. " 


232  Bedesman  4 

She  was  looking  at  him,  her  eyes  full 
of  smiles. 

"That  must  be,"  she  said  calmly,  "why 
Professor  Brownlow  talked  about  new  de- 
partures and  the  power  of  the  eye  and  his- 
tory-writing in  the  future." 

"He  talks  a  power  of  flattery  to  other 
people;  but  he  fell  upon  me  solidly,  when 
I  told  him  what  I  'd  done.  Then  he  ac- 
tually read  it, — in  manuscript  and  in  the 
middle  of  term !  and  sent  me  off  with  it  to 
the  publisher  the  next  week." 

"So  apparently  it  is  not  all  wrong,  but 
very  right." 

David's  eyes  roamed  to  the  Holbein. 

"Who  can  tell  that?"  he  said  with  a 
deep  change  in  his  voice, — "when  they  are 
'departed  as  if  they  had  never  been'?" 

He  felt  her  look  on  him  and  met  it. 
Then  the  eyes  of  this  new-met  maiden 
spoke  back  to  him  a  deep  thing  that  none 
knew,  save  he  himself.  An  awe  fell  on 


Gwen  233 

Ms  soul.    What  was  this  that  held  him? 

At  length,  he  knew  not  how  long  after, 

he  answered  her  as  if  she  had  spoken. 
'  *  You  are  right.    One  can  touch  them — '  * 
"They  can  touch  you,"  said  Gwen  Bry- 

don    quietly.    "That   is    why    you   could 

write  that  book." 

About  four  o'clock  the  next  morning, 
David  stood  at  his  sitting-room  window, 
drinking  in  the  fresh  breath  of  the  dawn. 
He  had  not  slept,  and  his  bedroom  seemed 
an  unendurable  and  stuffy  place. 

He  had  much  to  think  of,  but  he  thought 
of  none  of  it;  only  of  one  great  Fact. 
Deep  in  what  his  grandmother  would  have 
called  "his  own  dear  self,"  he  knew  what 
had  happened  to  him.  That  maiden  pres- 
ence that  his  own  had  met  to-night — met  in 
that  strange  and  sudden  intimacy  under 
the  painted  eyes  of  Sir  Humphrey  Nich- 
olas— even  that  dear  and  exquisite  pres- 


234  Bedesman  4 

ence,  known  as  it  seemed  to  him  forever, 
yet  a  new  and  precious  thing,  would  go 
on  beside  him  always  through  life,  what- 
ever happened  to  either  or  to  both  of  them. 

But — what  would  happen? 

David  made  no  effort  to  answer  the 
question. 

The  hour  of  answer  was  not  yet.  It 
would  arrive  and  not  be  hastened.  He, 
too, — and  she — would  travel  on,  as  it 
would  have  them.  These  facts  seemed  in- 
herent in  the  very  nature  of  things. 

A  cool  fragrance  of  new-growing  grass 
came  up  to  him  from  the  fine  green  turf  of 
the  quad.  Beyond  its  further  angle  of 
kind  old  College  walls,  a  long  church-roof, 
barely  visible,  lifted  upon  a  gray  and  silent 
sky  the  broad  and  soaring  lines  of  her 
great  spire.  Slowly  a  softly  rosy  light 
touched  the  edges  of  the  stone,  and  grew 
and  grew.  Detail  waked  in  crocket  and 
pinnacle  and  carven  saint.  A  solemn  and 


Gwen  235 

tapering  shadow  fell  and  grew  upon  the 
morning  air  and  sky. 

To  the  man  who  watched,  the  Ox- 
ford dawn  seemed  a  picture  of  his  own 
fate. 

Then  there  waked  in  him  something  that 
was  of  life,  and  cast  out  fear.  His  heart 
cried  out  to  the  Maker  of  youth  and  of  the 
morning  for  that  brave  and  joy-born  gift, 
a  man's  good  chance. 

"How  did  you  get  on  with  my  friend 
David?"  Bridget  asked. 

A  person  knowing  it  well  has  described 
the  Oxford  fly  as  "a  kind  of  vault."  The 
ancient  city  can  certainly  boast  an  undue 
proportion  of  ramshackle  and  faded  vehi- 
cles. A  fusty  smell,  as  of  damp  and  worn- 
out  hay,  always  clung,  for  Gwen,  about  cer- 
tain exquisite  memories  of  her  own:  for 
she  and  Bridget  went  home  in  an  old 
* '  four-wheeler. ' ' 


236  Bedesman  4 

"I  found  him  interesting,"  Gwen  said 
slowly.  "We  talked  about  his  book." 

In  the  dark  Bridget  smiled. — "I  hope 
his  next  won't  be  a  big  step  down.  He  has 
been  soaked  with  the  Founder,  since  he 
was  about  thirteen." 

"He  says  all  that  stood  in  his  way.  I 
could  trust  his  gift.  One  can't  tell  where 
it  will  go  next,  but — somewhere." 

"You  sound  pretty  sleepy." 

"Oh,  I  'm  not.  I  'm  very  much  awake. 
I  was  only  thinking — " 

Here  with  a  lurch  and  a  rattle  the  cab 
drew  up.  The  girls  alighted  and  paid. 
Under  the  light  on  the  landing,  Bridget 
cast  a  quick,  keen  look  at  her  friend. 

"Good-night,  beloved.  It  was  a  lovely 
party,  wasn't  it?" 

"Lovely,"  said  Gwen,  in  the  same  tone*, 
as  Bridget  turned  away. 

In  her  peaceful  room,  whose  white  bed 


Gwen  237 

stood  uncovered,  Gwen  slowly  drew  off  her 
draperies  of  white  and  gold.  She  was 
glad  to  have  no  one  to  speak  to :  she  seemed 
still  to  be  in  the  lit  hall  under  the  friendly 
eyes  of  that  square-bearded  man  in  the  flat 
hat. 

"Kin  and  kind  both,"  she  said  to  her- 
self, "when  next  I  feel  alone  in  the  world, 
I  '11  go  and  get  another  look  at  him." 

As  the  thought  came,  she  stood  still: 
then,  rather  suddenly,  sat  down  on  the  bed 
with  fixed  and  wondering  eyes. 

Alone!  Could  you  ever  be  that  again, 
while  the  world  held  another,  who  could 
think  your  thought  and  answer  it  before 
it  was  spoken — ? 

*         *         *         * 

"That'll  do,  Phyllis.  Bun  her  in 
under  that  willow.  It  's  heavenly  of  sum- 
mer term  to  begin  like  this." 

Bridget  cleared  a  light  wrap  and,  with 
some  rattle,  a  tea-basket  off  the  other  cush- 


238  Bedesman  4 

ion.  ' '  Now  let 's  go  ahead, ' '  she  observed, 
reaching  her  book;  "we  '11  have  tea — let  's 
see — in  an  hour,  eh?" 

Silence  reigned.  The  light  shadows  of 
the  willow-leaves  played  over  the  "Water- 
hen"  and  her  burden,  dancing  on  the  girls' 
light  frocks  and  on  the  open  page.  Other 
river  craft  went  by  with  quiet  splashings 
and  scraps  of  passing  talk.  But  neither 
moved. 

It  was  after  the  hour  before  Phyllis 
looked  at  her  watch;  and,  sitting  up, 
pushed  her  hair  back,  and  began  prepara- 
tions for  tea.  Bridget  shut  her  book. 

"It 's  pretty  lovely  here,"  she  re- 
marked, leaning  back.  "We  '11  miss  the 
river  when  we  go  down.  I  wish  Grwen 
would  have  come  too." 

There  was  an  instant's  pause,  before 
Phyllis  said,  rather  deliberately,  "Brid- 
get— what  's  the  matter  with  Gwen?" 

A  quick  look,  half  amused  and  wholly 


Gwen  239 

keen,  crossed  Bridget's  face.  "The  mat- 
ter with  her?"  she  said  to  Phyllis'  shoul- 
der, "as  howl" 

Phyllis  accomplished  lighting  the  spirit- 
lamp. 

"You  're  not  going  to  talk  about  it, 
then?"  she  observed.  "All  right,  if  you 
don't  want." 

"By  no  means.    Go  on." 

"You  must  see  what  I  see,  unless  I  'm 

crazy.  And  I  'm  not  the  only  one.  Lucy 
» 

"Lucy's  comments  are  interesting;  she 
is  of  a  different  civilization.  But  I  'd 
rather  know  what  you  see." 

Phyllis  bent  her  face  over  the  teapot. 
"Gwen  's  not  herself."  A  little  emotional 
sound  was  in  her  voice.  "She  forgets 
the  oddest  things, — when  she  's  promised 
to  help  you,  even.  And  she  looks — " 

"Perfectly  lovely.  It  's  said  people 
often  do,  in  her  case.  Yes,  Phyllis — 


240  Bedesman  4 

something  has  happened  to  Gwen.    We  Ve 
just  got  not  to  see  it." 

She  sat  up  in  the  punt.  The  other  girl 
still  leaned  forward,  her  face  not  visible. 
"Cheer  up,  child,"  Bridget  said,  "there  *s 
enough  of  your  Gwen  to  go  round,  even 

if—" 

§ 

Phyllis  turned  on  her  eyes  that  swam; 
the  springlike  face  of  a  fresh,  clear-witted, 
eager  maid,  out  of  a  country  Rectory,  and 
still  young  all  over. 

"I — I  don't  know  anything  whatever 
about — those  things/'  she  said  deliber- 
ately. Her  cheeks  were  rosy. 

Bridget  pulled  her  down,  kissed  her,  and 
laughed. 

"No,"  she  said,  "as  for  me, — well,  I  Ve 
seen  my  brother  through  about  three  ab- 
surdities. But  Gwen  is  somehow  too  big 
not  to  be  visible.  She  moves  all  of  a 
piece.  Very  likely  she  's  still  unconscious. 
See,  Phyllis,  we  've  got  to  protect  her.  If 


Gwen  241 

Lucy,  or  any  of  them — especially  Lucy — 
begins  to  talk,  just  choke  them  off. 
'Those  things'  shouldn't  be  discussed. 
They  're  one  person's  business  (I  believe 
I  mean  two!) — and  no  one  else's.  It's 
not  for  us  to  touch  the  thing.  See?" 

Phyllis  nodded,  looking  into  the  willow- 
tree. 

''It  would  be — beastly  irreverent,"  she 
murmured,  as  a  canoe  went  by  them 
swiftly. 

"That  tea  will  be  stewed,"  said  Bridget. 

When  she  began  to  sip  her  cup,  she  spoke 
again. 

"I  've  got  a  word  more  to  say:  but  it  is 
not — ever — to  go  beyond  us  two.  You  can 
hold  your  tongue,  Phyllis.  I  've  a  special 
reason  for  wanting  silence  round  Gwen. 
I  happen  to  know  that  there  are  things 
about — the  other,  that  Gwen  will  have  to 
hear.  Only  one  person  ought  to  tell  her 
— himself.  I  'm  taking  perhaps  a  big  re- 


242  Bedesman  4 

sponsibility,  but  I  don't  mean  even  to  hint 
them  to  her.  And  she  won't  hear  them 
from  any  one  else — unless  there  were  gos- 
sip. ' ' 

Phyllis  nodded.  She  would  as  soon  have 
sought  to  know  who  "himself"  might  be, 
as  demanded  an  immediate  interview  with 
an  archangel. 

"All  right.  I  promise.  Is  it  going  to 
be  for  long,  Bridget?" 

"All  this  term,  I  should  expect,"  said 
Bridget.  She  paused  and  smiled.  "To 
think  I  should  come  to  be  a  mother  to 
Gwen!" 

*         *         *        * 

"We  got  to  think  over  them  two  letters, 
my  dear.  One  of  'em  's  just  as  good  as 
t'other.  Yet  you  may  be  sure  there  's  a 
lot  to  choose,  if  you  could  on'y  get  at  it." 

Esther  Bold  sat  in  the  chimney-corner, 
in  a  soft  white  shawl.  "The  weather,"  or 
some  other  obscure  cause,  had  brought  her 


Gwen  243 

a  slight  return  of  last  year's  illness. 
Emily  had  come  home  to  nurse  her  and 
sat  sewing,  in  a  neat  print,  opposite. 

"I  likes  that  first  one  the  best,"  she  ob- 
served, biting  her  thread,  "  't  is  a  titled 
lady;  and  I  'd  be  sure  to  get  on  with  that 
upper.  Swayne,  she  never  taught  you  a 
thing,  only  druv  you  just  to  get  the  work 
done.  Else  I  should  n'  ha'  been  so  ready 
to  leave.  This  one  's  proper  second  house- 
maid with  a  'between,'  so  as  you  can 
get  on  up.  I  ain't  goin'  single-handed 
again.  'Twas  a  mistake  takin'  Symes's 
place. ' ' 

Her  mother  stretched  a  hand  for  the  let- 
ters. The  quiet  face  had  a  certain  air  of 
frailness,  and  a  curiously  deepened  calm; 
but  no  suggestion  of  the  old  woman  yet. 
She  sat  very  still  and  perused  the  letters 
carefully  before  handing  them  back. 

" 'T  is  true,  my  dear,  about  th'  upper: 
and  the  money  and  all.  I  don't  know  how 


244  Bedesman  4 

't  is — somehow  I  'd  sooner  thee  took  the 
t'other,  but—" 

"Here  's  somebody  coming  down  the 
path,"  said  Emily,  rising.  " 'T  is — well, 
I  never!  Dave!" 

With  a  scream,  she  ran  to  hug  and  kiss 
him  in  the  entry.  The  mother  did  not 
move.  He  would  not  keep  her  waiting: 
and  a  moment's  quiet  after  that  sudden  big 
leap  of  the  heart  was  best  for  her.  Fold- 
ing the  letters,  she  bestowed  them  quietly 
under  the  lid  of  her  work-basket,  which 
stood  close  by  on  a  three-legged  stool. 

He  came  in,  and  stooped  to  put  an  arm 
round  her,  and  let  her  hold  him.  He 
seemed  very  tall  and  strong  beside  her, 
and  she  knew  at  once  that  something  lay 
behind  his  grave  look.  He  would  tell  her 
in  time.  A  perfect  confidence  dwelt  be- 
tween these  two.  When  last  spring 
Esther  lay  ill,  ' 'facing  death," — the  coun- 
trywoman's matter-of-course — she  had 


Gwen  245 

known,  with  a  lifting  of  the  heart,  that 
nothing  would  ever  come  between  them 
now.  That  which  was  there  was  a  thing 
not  to  be  disturbed. 

"I  had  a  day  free,  so  I  ran  down,"  he 
said;  "I  Ve — news  to  tell  you,  Mother." 

He  paused,  watching  her.  Emily  from 
the  background  jumped  to  a  seat  on  the 
table.  "Oh,  I  say,  Dave—" 

"Hush,  dear,"  Esther  Bold  lifted  a 
hand.  "What  is  it,  my  son?" 

"My  College  have  made  me  one  of  their 
Fellows.  I  only  knew  late  last  night.  I 
came  off  to  tell  you,  Mother.  The  post 
wouldn't  quite  do." 

Esther  Bold  took  her  son's  hand  quietly. 
Emily  leaped  off  the  table. 

"Dave,  Dave,  oh,  Dave!  I  be  that 
glad." 

Her  brother  caught  her  to  him  and  gave 
her  a  kiss.  "Those  were  the  words  you 
said,  Sis,  when  we  danced  up  and  down  this 


246  Bedesman  4 

floor  together,  on  a  night  when  I  knew  I 
was  going  to  a  certain  free  grammar 
school. ' ' 

The  two  laughed  together,  holding  each 
other's  shoulders,  Emily  full  of  chat- 
ter. 

Esther  Bold  sat  by  the  fire,  a  still  look 
on  her  face.  "The  Lord  have  been  very 
good  to  ee,  my  son, ' '  she  said,  when  silence 
had  fallen  and  lasted  long. 

When  Emily  ran  down  to  shop  for  a 
rasher  for  supper,  he  sat  on  holding  her 
hand  for  a  long  while. 

"Have  ee  any  more  to  say,  my  son?" 
she  asked  presently. 

"How  did  you  know?  Yes — I  Ve  more 
to  say.  In  a  week  or  two,  Mother,  I  'm 
not  sure  when,  I  am  going  to  stay  with 
some  Oxford  friends  at  their  country 
house.  There  I  shall  meet  some  one — 
whom  I  love.  I  am  going  to  tell  her  all 
my  story.  Very  likely  she  will  say  me 


Gwen  247 

'Nay,'  but,  yet — I  think  I  have  my  chance. 
I  Ve  known  her  some  time,  but  not  seen 
much  of  her.  It  seemed  a  thing  hardly 
right  to  seek  her,  till  after  my  degree.  But 
somehow,  when  we  meet,  as  we  did  last 
week  and  again  yesterday,  I  seem  to  know 
her  quite  well.  Why  is  it,  Mother?" 

"I  take  it,  my  son,"  said  Esther  Bold 
calmly,  "  't  is  'cause  you  be  the  two.  I  've 
knowed  some  while,  my  dear,"  she  added 
after  a  pause,  "as  there  was  someone, 
and  as  'twas  n't  my  Miss  Bridget.  The 
Lord  give  thee  joy  of  the  maid,  my  son, 
and  send  thee  thy  heart's  desire." 

There  fell  a  hush  that  he  would  not 
break.  He  looked  at  her  furtively.  He 
did  not  like  these  little  illnesses. 

"My  dear,"  said  Esther  Bold,  and 
then  paused,  "she  '11  be  a  lady,  I  take  it, 
and  we  're  but  poor  folks.  Thee  be  come 
up  a  gentleman,  like  we  always  said,  and 
't  is  so  she  '11  know  thee.  Thee  won't  think 


248  Bedesman  4 

as  thee  must  be  constant  coming  here.     She 

» 

David  Bold  made  a  quick  movement, 
grasping  his  mother's  hand  so  tight  that 
he  all  but  hurt  her. 

"Mother — no.  She  Ts  too  big  for  all 
that.  If  she — should  care,  all  would  work 
out  of  itself.  If  not, — I — I — could  not 
marry  her.  I  have  the  right  to  speak  to 
her.  Oxford  makes  a  man  belong  to  his 
future,  not  his  past.  He  is  himself,  and 
what  he  can  do  of  himself,  after  that. 
Who  gave  me  Oxford,  Mother?" 

She  pressed  his  hand,  not  speaking. 

"I  should  like  you/'  he  said  thought- 
fully, "to  know  her  name, — Gwendolen 
Brydon.  You  won't  name  it  again,  un- 
less— She  *s  a  lovely  woman,  Mother. 
The  first  time  ever  I  saw  her,  I  saw  she 
was  like  you." 

"Gwendolen  Brydon,"  said  Esther  Bold 
slowly. 


Gwen  249 

Emily  and  the  rashers  immediately  ar- 
rived,— then  Father,  stumping  in,  to  have 
the  Oxford  news  explained  to  him  over  the 
meal.  When  Esther  had  gone  up  to  bed 
the  two  men  sat  there,  the  father  smoking 
a  long  clay,  and  David  joining  him. 
When  he  knocked  the  ashes  from  it,  his 
son  got  up. 

''Father,'*  he  said,  "I  haven't  thanked 
you  for  what  you  Ve  given  me — for  what 
has  brought  me  to  this  day." 

William  Bold  looked  up.  He  surveyed 
the  tall  man  in  his  sound  tweeds,  whose 
head  had  a  curious  dignity  that  he  under- 
stood not.  And  deep  in  his  soul,  he  knew 
they  were  strangers.  When  he  spoke,  his 
voice  had  a  touch  of  harshness  in  it,  yet 
a  hint  of  satisfaction. 

"When  you  Ve  a-putt  down  a  pot  of 
money,"  he  said,  "you  do  like  to  see  some- 
thing for  it.  Your  mother's  uncommon 
pleased. ' ' 


XII 

,"  said  Glover,  the  butler,  with  'a 
look  in  his  eye,'  "the  gentleman  's 
comin'  down,  this  time,  eh?  When  '11 
the  wedding-day  be,  Mrs.  Sykes,  I  won- 
der?" 

' '  She  '11  make  a  lovely  bride, ' '  said  Mrs. 
Sykes,  breaking  an  egg  with  an  air  of  sen- 
timent. 

"Here,  Jane,"  said  the  butler  grandly, 
"you  can  put  this  letter  on  the  spare-room 
mantelpiece. ' r 

....... 

The  childlike  gentleness  of  Lady  Susan's 
aged  face  was   overcast.     Her  blue  eyes 
were  troubled.     Her  Honiton  cap  had  even 
tilted  a  little  on  one  side. 
250 


Gwen  251 

"I  don't  see  how  I  can  let  her  go,"  Lady 
Susan  murmured. 

"Of  course  you  can't.  Darling  dear, 
your  cap!  Let  me.  If  Jane  wants  to  go 
home,  she  should  make  a  clean  breast  of 
it," 

4 'How  can  I,  Gwen,  with  Watson  so 
far  from  well?  And  yet  I  can't  bear  be- 
ing hard  on  a  servant.  I  wonder,  could 
one  put  him  off?  But  it 's  only  for  two 
nights,  and  so  good  for  your  uncle.  He 
wanted  him  asked ;  Mr.  Bold  's  so  nice  with 
him.  It  's  not  sickness,  she  said — " 

"Surely,  dear,  then,  it  can  wait?" 
Gwen's  breath  had  caught  a  little.  "See, 
auntie,  shall  I  speak  to  her?  We  're 
rather  friends.  I  won't  have  you  worried 
into  a  headache." 

"Oh,  no,  dear.  It 's  settled  now.  But 
I  'm  not  comfortable.  Suppose  her  par- 
ents really  want  her.  Such  dreadful 
things  do  happen  to  the  poor!  They  're 


252  Bedesman  4 

such  very  respectable  people,  "Watson  says. 
The  father  's  a  quarryman.  And  she  ys 
such  a  nice  girl,  only  here  a  month  and 
Watson  can  leave  her  to  anything.  Just 
what  I  want.  I  wonder  what  it  is.  Per- 
haps some  brother  's  run  away  to  sea,  or 
they  're  in  debt,  or  the  father  drinks — " 

Gwen  burst  out  laughing. 

1 '  Oh,  dear,  poor  things !  What  a  tender- 
hearted auntie  it  is ! " 

The  Times  here  arrived  opportunely, 
under  the  big  cedar-tree. 

When  Lady  Susan  had  entered  upon  a 
leader,  Gwen  got  up  and  went  in.  She  had 
seen  a  duster  flutter  out  of  her  bedroom 
window,  in  the  midst  of  reading  out  the 
paragraphs. 

"Ah!  Jane,  has  my  lilac  gingham  come 
home  from  the  wash?" 

Jane  set  down  the  pail  she  was  carrying 
away. 

"No,  miss.     But  I  Ve  sent  round." 


Gwen  253 

"Oh,  thanks!  Jane,  I  'm  sorry  to  hear 
you  're  in  trouble." 

Jane  stood  upon  one  foot,  flushing  to  the 
roots  of  her  sandy  hair.  She  reached  after 
the  handle  of  the  pail. 

"Oh,  it  's — it 's  not  anything,  miss." 
Another  woman's  eye  saw  it  was  very 
much  indeed.  "I  'm  sorry  I  troubled  her 
Ladyship,  miss." 

"But — what  is  it,  child?"  Gwen  thrust 
the  door  to,  over  the  girl's  shoulder. 
"You  're  really  in  trouble,  or  you  would  n't 
have  spoken.  And  I  might  help.  Tell 
me.  It  won't  go  any  further,  I  prom- 
ise." 

The  sense  of  common  girlhood  was  in 
the  tone.  Lady  Susan's  housemaid  stood 
flushed  and  awkward.  Then  she  gave  a 
quick,  hot  glance  upwards,  (why  can't 
one  say  'uttered  a  glance T  that  is  the 
truth)  just  one  look,  but  it  covered  the 
whole,  from  head  to  dapper  slipper-toe,  of 


254  Bedesman  4 

Gwen's  fair,  dainty,  summer-morning  per- 
son. Then  she  dropped  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  no,  miss !     Not  if  't  was  ever  so !" 

Gwen  was  startled.  She  felt  as  if  she 
had  been  scorched.  And  she  had  no  idea 
why.  It  was  as  if  there  was  something 
hostile,  almost  tragic  in  the  glance. 
Tragic!  Jane!  solid,  steady-going  maid- 
servant 1 

"But,  if  it  's  so  serious — "  Gwen  found 
herself  saying. 

"Oh,  't  is  n't,  miss.  'Tis — nothing.  I 
only  wanted  for  to  see  Mother." 

"Well,  I  'm  sure,  next  week,  when  the 
house  is  empty,  my  aunt  will  spare  you 

gladly.     Mrs.  Watson  will  be  better,  and 

» 

"Oh,  yes,  miss.  Please,  miss,  don't  you 
trouble.  'Tis  just  nothing."  And  Jane, 
the  color  of  a  hot  coal,  seized  her  pail  and 
was  gone.  Gwen  shrugged  her  graceful 
shoulders.  Well,  you  can't  help  some  peo- 


Gwen  255 

pie.    But  what  on  earth  had  made   the 
girl  look  at  her  like  that? 

The  girl  went  away,  as  in  a  desperate 
hurry,  the  pail  clanging  noisily  down  the 
passage.  When  she  got  into  the  roomy 
housemaid's  cupboard,  where  the  sink  was, 
she  thrust  the  door  to  behind  her,  set- 
ting down  the  pail  with  a  quick  rattle,  with 
no  attempt  to  empty  it.  She  stood  breath- 
ing quick,  big  drops  of  agitation  and  stress 
breaking  out  on  her  forehead.  "Oh, 
dear!"  she  said  in  little  gasps.  "Oh, 
dear!"  Persons  of  her  condition  do  not 
soliloquize,  save  in  such  interjections,  the 
natural  vent  of  woman  till  that  queer  thing 
called  culture  has  made  her  ashamed.  If 
they  did,  she  would  have  gasped  out, ' l  Her ! 
her,  of  all  people!  Tell  her!"  She  be- 
came quieter,  leaning  against  the  wall,  her 
eyes  fixed  and  troubled.  Was  ever  poor 
girl  put  in  such  a  corner  before?  Who 
ever  heard  of  such  a  thing?  Oh,  what  a 


256  Bedesman  4 

Heaven-sent  blessing  they  called  her 
"Jane"!  'T  would  n't  never  strike  him 
to  remember  her  second  name,  Granny's. 
If  only  she  'd  written  to  him  since  she  came 
here  a  fortnight  ago!  Mother  wouldn't 
have  given  her  address  yet,  thinking  she 
wrote  herself. 

The  helping  wait  dinner!  Oh,  there 
would  be  the  trouble !  What  a  mercy  they 
used  red-shaded  candles!  Perhaps  he 
would  never  look  up,  nor  catch  her  face. 
If  he  did — good  heavens !  what  would  they 
both  do? 

All  at  once  sobs  burst  up  into  her  throat. 
Oh,  it  was  hard!  She  hadn't  seen  him  so 
long,  except  for  that  one  night.  But  stand 
in  his  way!  ruin  his  chance — 

' '  Jane !  Jane ! ' '  came  in  Mrs.  Watson 's 
vigorous  tones,  from  the  further  land- 
ing. 

The  girl  dashed  her  apron  up  into  her 
eyes,  and  emptied  the  pail  with  a  resound- 


Gwen  257 

ing  splash.  There  was  no  help  for  it. 
The  thing  had  got  to  be  faced. 

It  was  tea-time  when  the  guest  arrived. 
From  the  bedroom  window,  when  Miss 
Gwen's  lilac  gingham  came  home  to  be 
carried  up,  one  could  see  the  little  group 
under  the  cedar,  the  white  table  with  the 
pretty  tray,  all  dainty  china  and  silver; 
Lady  Susan,  old  and  elegant,  in  the  wicker 
arm-chair;  the  Doctor  with  his  big  white 
hat;  Miss  Gwen's  gracious  figure  in  that 
pretty  blue  cotton,  bending  over  the  tea- 
pot, drawing  up  a  chair; — -Miss  Gwen! 
why,  if  that  happened!  oh,  goodness,  such 
things  could  n't  be ! — And,  clear  to  be  seen, 
but  with  his  back  to  her,  that  other  figure, 
in  dark  brown  tweeds,  the  black  head, 
the  shoulders.  Oh,  come,  one  mustn't 
get  to  crying  again!  How  nice  he  did 
look! 

Yes,  David  Bold,  for  a  peasant  boy,  made 
outwardly  a  remarkably  successful  "gen- 


258  Bedesman  4 

tleman. ' '  When  one  has  been  taught  from 
babyhood  to  fear  God  and  respect  one's 
elders,  to  hate  a  lie,  and  consider  one's 
neighbor,  one 's  root-principles  are  not  fun- 
damentally different  from  those  regulating 
'  *  the  gentle  life, ' '  socially  so  called.  There 
was  at  moments  a  shy  and  rather  need- 
less modesty  about  him.  That  was  all. 
For  the  peasant,  pure  and  simple,  is  not  a 
"vulgar"  person.  That  means  entirely 
something  else.  Small  wonder  none  of 
the  family  had  wondered  whence  he  came, 
though  Dr.  Morcott  thought  he  knew  him 
well. 

And  there,  upstairs,  furtive  and  fright- 
ened, peering  between  the  light  summer 
curtains,  in  her  tidy  black  frock  and  white 
apron  and  her  neat  little  housemaid's  cap, 
his  own  born  sister,  that  had  shared  his 
baby  plays  and  eaten  hot  toast  off  the  same 
plate  with  him,  stood  and  gazed  at  him  with 
hungry  eyes. 


Gwen  259 

"You  're  fond  of  the  country,"  Gwen 
said,  as  they  strolled  down  the  long  path 
to  the  paddock. 

David  had  come  straight  from  three 
weeks'  reading  at  the  British  Museum. 
The  summer  days  in  town,  airless  and 
dust-defiled,  made  all  gardens  more  fair. 
He  glanced  round  him,  drawing  a  deep 
breath. 

"I  was  born  and  bred  in  the  country," 
he  answered.  As  he  said  it,  suddenly,  a 
thing  happened.  The  garden  prospect, 
the  overhanging  beeches,  the  tangled  bed  of 
poppies  mingled  with  white  pinks,  that  ran 
beside  the  path, — aye,  even  the  girl  so  close 
to  him — were  there  no  more.  He  was 
on  a  rough  paved  pathway,  outside  a  gray 
thatched  cottage  in  its  neat  garden,  where, 
too,  the  pinks  grew.  To  go  in,  to  where 
the  low-roofed,  tidy  kitchen  glowed  with 
firelight,  and  one  in  black  gown  and  neat 
apron  sat  and  sewed,  he  must  step  down, 


260  Bedesman  4 

through  the  brown  doorway,  must  stoop 
his  head  a  good  deal. 

The  moment  was  very  intense.  It  could 
scarcely  have  happened  if  he  had  not  been 
vividly  in  love.  He  had  come  down  here, 
eager,  shaken  with  the  seeing  her  again. 
In  the  broad,  silent  museum's  matted 
spaces,  amid  the  deep  joys  that  came  to 
him  from  dusty  decipherments  in  solemn 
aged  tomes,  she  had  been  never  absent  from 
him. 

His  life  at  Oxford  had  been  always  quiet, 
but  never  narrow.  Every  one  knew  he  was 
poor,  and  had  come  up  from  a  country 
grammar  school.  His  gifts,  combined 
with  a  certain  simple  directness  of  char- 
acter, due  partly  to  youthful  sincerity, 
partly  to  his  peasant  instincts  and  up- 
bringing, had  saved  him  awkwardnesses. 
He  had  learned  unconsciously,  to  adapt 
himself,  as  academic  life  teaches,  to  people, 
to  circumstances.  He  had  many  friends. 


Gwen  261 

That  sudden  acute  memory  smote  him 
like  a  blow  in  the  face. 

All  at  once,  now,  he  realized  the  gulf. 
It  was  as  if  he  never  had  seen  it  yawn  be- 
fore. It  was  true  that  he  no  longer  be- 
longed to  that  life  where  his  mother  dwelt. 
A  light  puff  of  wind  fluttered  a  blue  cot- 
ton skirt  towards  him.  Gwen,  his  gra- 
cious lady,  to  whose  world  he  did  belong, 
for  good  and  all,  who  knew  nothing  about 
the  other — 

All  at  once  one  of  those  strange  voices, 
as  out  of  the  Invisible,  that,  at  weighty 
hours  of  life  speak  suddenly  to  shake,  to 
inspire  us,  came  to  David  Bold. 

"Tell  her  now,"  It  said;  "you  have 
to  tell  her.  Say  'I  am  a  quarryman's 
son.'  " 

As  It  came,  the  two  turned  up  the  path 
again.  When  they  reached  the  head  of  it, 
David  stepped  aside  and  gathered  some- 
thing from  the  border. 


262  Bedesman  4 

"Do  you  like  pinks?"  lie  said.  His 
voice  was  not  quite  steady. 

He  had  not  spoken.  He  did  not  mean 
to  speak.  He  did  not  know  her  well 
enough.  He  was  not  ready. — 

Yet  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart — fool- 
ishly, unreasonably  though  it  might  be — 
he  was  ashamed. 

As  they  passed  over  the  lawn,  a  muslin 
curtain,  caught  by  the  warm  breeze,  sud- 
denly billowed  out  of  a  first  floor  window. 
They  both  looked  up.  Then  Gwen  looked 
swiftly  at  him.  Behind  the  billow  she 
had  seen,  in  a  quick  vision,  something. 
Had  he  seen  it  tool 

It  was  a  furtive,  eager  face — the  face 
of  Jane  the  housemaid. 

The  red-shaded  candles  shone  softly 
upon  dark  roses  laid  upon  the  white  cloth. 
The  soup  had  gone  round.  It  was  salmon 
now.  There  was  an  entree  to  come  next. 


Gwen  263 

Glover  was  distinctly  worried.  He 
could  not  think  what  was  the  matter  with 
the  girl.  As  a  rule,  she  waited  capitally, 
was  all  he  wanted.  To-night  she  seemed  to 
have  lost  her  head,  had  missed  out 
the  guest !  From  the  sideboard  he  did  his 
best  to  telegraph  to  her ;  then  he  beckoned 
and  thrust  the  plate  into  her  hand.  Merci- 
fully no  one  saw  him. 

Whether  it  was  her  nervousness,  or  the 
fear  of  getting  no  fish,  that  disturbed  the 
even  tenor  of  his  mind,  David  Bold  became 
suddenly  aware  of  he  knew  not  what  in  the 
air.  He  glanced  up.  Suddenly  he  ceased 
to  speak.  That  hot,  strange  vision  of 
home  leapt  up  once  more.  He  had  met 
full  a  frightened,  deprecating,  distressed 
pair  of  blue  eyes.  Bending  to  hand  cu- 
cumber to  the  Professor,  he  saw  his  sis- 
ter Emily. 

David  never  knew  clearly  what  he 
thought  or  did  in  that  instant.  An  im- 


264  Bedesman  4 

pulse  to  spring  up  from  his  chair,  to 
speak,  came  first,  for  one  warm,  natural 
moment.  Then  Emily's  eyes,  and  an  ac- 
quired instinct,  that  in  that  strange  crisis 
half  of  him  hated,  the  other  half  respected, 
kept  him  seated,  silent.  He  was  forbidden 
by  all  laws  of  good  breeding,  to  make  a 
scene.  He  bent  his  eyes  on  his  plate  and 
helped  himself  to  salt. 

Some  one  else  had  seen,  some  one  sit- 
ting opposite  him.  A  pair  of  quick  girl's 
eyes  had  intercepted  that  speechless  mes- 
sage. 

The  color  flooded  Gwen's  cheek  and 
neck.  But  he  saw  nothing  but  his  plate. 

"Are  you  drinking  claret,  Bold?"  said 
Dr.  Morcott,  into  the  pause. 

At  the  end  of  the  interminable  meal,  and 
the  Doctor's  learned  questions  over  the 
port,  David  Bold,  wondering  what  he  had 
done  and  said  all  that  time,  turned  and 
went  upstairs  to  his  room.  There  was  only 


Gwen  265 

one  thing  lie  could  do  and  he  blushed  in  the 
dark  as  he  did  it.  He  walked  across  the 
room  and  rang  the  bell. 

As  he  stood  waiting  in  that  first  unoc- 
cupied moment,  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  knew  not  who  he  was  or  what  he  was. 
He  was  less  ''in  a  strait  betwixt  two"  than 
adhering  to  both,  fighting  fiercely  for  his 
rights  in  both.  His  mother — Emily  meant 
his  mother!  Gwen,  the  new,  insistent,  ex- 
quisite love,  that  while  the  life  beat  in  him, 
must  come  first  of  all  things!  The  thing 
went  so  much  deeper  than  the  surface  ex- 
citements, the  question  of  tact,  the  hideous 
embarrassment,  that,  acute  as  they  were, 
they  seemed  only  to  prick  him  like  pins, 
amid  the  strong  half-comprehended  stabs 
of  the  deep  instincts  in  struggle  within. 
Yet  they  hurt  acutely.  In  a  moment  Emily 
would  be  here. 

But  Mr.  Bold  was  as  yet  but  inade- 
quately initiated  into  the  due  routine  of  a 


266  Bedesman  4 

careful  household.  As  he  stood  in  the 
dark,  catching  his  breath,  a  dignified  creak 
approached  along  the  passage.  In  the 
twilit  dusk  came  a  decorous  knock  at  the 
open  door,  and  the  offended  but  patient 
voice  of  Glover  disturbed  at  his  supper. 

"You  rang,  sir?" 

David  could  have  leapt  at  Glover's 
throat.  "I — I  want  some  hot  water," 
came  from  his  lips  lamely.  For  Emily's 
sake,  he  could  not  ask  for  the  housemaid. 

Gwen  sat  by  the  lamp,  drawing  threads 
from  a  square  of  coarse  linen.  She  did 
not  look  at  David  Bold  as  he  came  in. 
What  did  the  thing  mean?  What  had  the 
housemaid  to  do  with  him,  that  their  eyes 
met  like  that? 

The  girl  was  young,  and  there  was 
pride  in  her,  the  hot  pride  of  birth  and 
breeding,  the  fierce,  tenderer,  tremulous 
pride  of  first  love.  She  knew  she  cared  for 


Gwen  267 

this  man.  What  had  he  to  do  with  the 
housemaid? 

David  Bold  took  a  seat  in  the  shadow, 
not  going  near  her,  picking  up  a  magazine. 
But  he  saw  nothing  else  but  Gwen.  The 
bent  head,  the  little  fair  tendrils  of  hair 
on  the  nape  of  the  neck,  the  gracious  slope 
of  the  shoulders,  the  noble  brow.  The 
sight  of  her  took  hold  of  him,  as  never  till 
this  moment. 

A  fierce  question  waked  and  burned.  If 
she  knew? 

The  workman's  son  knew  himself — all 
at  once — ignorant  of  her  standpoint.  The 
idea  of  a  mean  thought  as  hers  would  not 
realize  itself  within  him.  Yet — how  did 
she  look  at  things?  If  she  knew,  what 
would  she  say?  She,  the  orphan  maid  with 
money,  who,  as  he  knew  well  enough,  would 
dispose  of  herself. 

Gwen — Lady  Susan's  high-bred  niece, 
sister-in-law  to  the  housemaid! 


268  Bedesman  4 

The  idea  was  too  bizarre  to  be  taken  in. 

It  was  inevitable  that  the  inherent  temp- 
tation should  be  visible  to  David  Bold. 
How  could  it  not  be  ? 

To  see  Emily  furtively,  tell  her  to  be 
silent,  not  to  know  him  here.  What  harm 
in  that?  What  so  natural 

To  acknowledge  her,  in  the  midst  of  this 
peaceful  refinement,  with  all  its  delicacies 
of  consideration  each  for  other,  to  speak 
and  tell  Lady  Susan,  Dr.  Morcott,  that  his 
pupil  and  guest,  to  whom  they  had  shown 
exquisite  kindness,  and  the  girl  whom  they 
paid  to  empty  the  slops  and  make  the  beds 
were  of  one  blood — would  it  not  be  like 
an  affront? 

Instantly,  all  through,  he  hated  himself. 
The  suggestion  could  have  come  to  Esther 
Bold's  son  only  from  outside  himself. 
She  would  have  called  it  "a  thought  from 
the  devil."  He  hated  it.  Yet  there  was 
honest  perplexity  in  him.  The  situation 


Gwen  269 

was  an  unheard-of    thing.    How  could  he 
do  that! 

Gwen  swept  down  the  passage  with  a 
rustle  of  silk  skirts.  She  had  shaken  hands 
with  the  guest  at  the  stair-head.  As  she 
entered  her  bedroom,  Jane  came  out.  She 
had  just  deposited  a  hot  water  can,  and 
she  carried  another. 

The  guest  had  just  entered  his  room  op- 
posite, towards  which  the  girl  crossed. 
Then  she  stopped  and  turned  to  go  down 
the  passage.  She  had  seen  him.  But  a 
voice  said,  "I  want  to  speak  to  you." 
Gwen,  invisible  herself,  saw  the  instant  of 
hesitation.  Then  Jane  had  crossed  the 
other  threshold,  and  the  door  was  shut. 

"Oh,  Dave!  I  didn't  never  mean! 
Dave—" 

The  sentence  was  cut  short.  The  gen- 
tleman in  dress  clothes  caught  and  kissed 


270  Bedesman  4 

the  girl  in  cap  and  apron.  Then  he 
looked  at  her  for  an  instant,  his  face  un- 
steady. 

"Bless  the  maid!  she  's  as  red  as  the 
roses.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  you  were 
here?" 

"I  never  knowed  as  you  was  comin', 
Dave.  Not  till  Mr.  Glover  give  me  a  let- 
ter for  to  put  on  your  chimney-piece. 
Dave,  I  'm  that  sorry!  But  I  shan't  say 
nothinV 

The  well-known  tones  with  the  burr  of 
home  in  them  brought  a  queer  sensation 
into  David's  throat.  The  eyes,  with  their 
wistful  love,  their  anxiety,  did  not  help. 
He  suddenly  took  her  by  the  shoulders. 

' t  Look  here,  sister  Emily,  what  time  are 
you  free  to-morrow?  In  the  afternoon? 
After  tea?  We  '11  go  out  together." 

"Oh,  Dave,  I  couldn't.  They  'd  all  be 
talkin'.  'T  would  come  to  Miss  Gwen — 
Oh,  Dave,  I  'oodn't  stand  in  your  way." 


Gwen  27 1 

The  dark  face  flushed  hotly. 
"What  time  are  you  free?" 
"Well,  ha'-past  five— But,  Dave—" 
"We  '11  have  a  chat  then.    Well,  now, 

good  night,  Sis.     I  'm  afraid  you  'd  better 

not  stop  here." 

Gwen  lay  awake  a  long  time.  Thoughts 
unknown  to  her  life  visited  her  that  night. 
Then  she  tossed  through  dreams  for  a 
short  three  hours,  and  woke  in  full  summer 
sunshine,  about  six.  She  was  weary  and 
restless.  The  summer  garden  invited. 
She  rose  and  went  out. 

Her  heart  was  troubled.  Nature  was 
kind,  under  the  dewy  trees. 

Yesterday  she  had  thought  him  her  own. 
Now  she  was  proudly  aware  that  she  re- 
linquished him.  They  were  not  engaged; 
she  held  no  rights  in  him.  There  were 
many  details  in  a  man's  life, — also  many 
women,  who  took  what  they  called  a 


272  Bedesman  4 

1 '  broad-minded  view"  of  them.  They 
had  a  right  to  their  view,  if  they  liked  it. 
But  it  was  not  Gwendolen  Brydon's.  Old 
Nicholas  blood,  and  withal  certain  things 
inherent  in  herself,  said  that  in  his  rela- 
tions with  a  woman,  be  she  heiress  or  be 
she  housemaid,  a  man  either  acted  honor- 
ably, or  he  did  not. 

Going  home  to  breakfast,  through  the 
woodland  ways,  some  half  mile  off,  she 
caught  sight  of  a  black  and  red  uni- 
form. 

"Good  morning,  postman,"  said  Gwen, 
ever  good-natured,  "can't  I  save  you  a 
walk?" 

He  pulled  up,  thanked  her,  shifted  his 
bag  from  his  back,  and  gave  her  the  house- 
hold letters.  Gwen  went  on  towards  the 
house,  turning  over  the  little  bundle  idly 
to  find  her  own. 

All  at  once  in  the  middle  of  the  coach- 
way,  she  stopped. 


Gwen  273 

Whose  address  was  that! 

"Miss   Emily  Jane  Bold,"— 

Bold—?  The  only  Bold  was— That  was 
a  servant's  letter,  obviously.  The  envel- 
ope,— the  handwriting,  said  so. 

' '  His  people  are  poor. ' ' 

As  with  a  growing  light,  something 
slowly  unfolded  itself  before  Gwen.  A  hot 
spot  burned  in  her  left  cheek. 

She  went  through  the  open  study  win- 
dow, where  a  girl  was  sweeping.  ' '  Here  's 
a  letter  for  you,  Jane,  I  think.  I  met  the 
postman." 

Upstairs  in  her  room  Gwen  stood  still. 
Her  heart  yearned  over  what  she  loved. 
She  had  misjudged  him. 

Yes.  But  this  was  a  new  test.  Would 
he  stand  it! 

The  girl's  lips  parted  in  an  anxious 
smile. 

Heavens!  What  a  moment  for  a  man! 
To  speak  out,  to  confess! 


274  Bedesman  4 

Or  else  to  risk  for  that  other  girl,  who 
belonged  to  him,  the  gossip  of  the  servants * 
hall,  of  all  her  neighbors  in  her  own 
sphere.  And — more  than  that.  What 
would  David  Bold  be  worth,  if  he  were 
silent? 

"Yesterday,"  Gwen  said  to  herself,  de- 
liberately, "I  meant  to  marry  him.  To- 
day— I  don't  care  two  straws  how  he  is 
born.  He  is  himself.  But  the  man  I 
marry  must  be  a  gentleman ! ' ' 

Uplifted  and  tremulous  her  heart  shook 
within  her;  but  by  that  test  Gwen  would 
abide. 

David  Bold  was  shy,  speaking  less  freely 
than  usual. 

It  might  have  been  half -past  ten,  when 
Lady  Susan,  armed  with  a  large  and  seri- 
ous book  and  a  white  parasol,  took  her 
seat,  as  each  morning,  on  the  terrace,  in 
the  shadow  of  the  house.  After  a  few 
minutes  a  step  approached  her.  "Lady 


Gwen  275 

Susan,"  said  David  Bold's  voice,  "may 
I  ask  you  for  something?" 

Lady  Susan  looked  up.  She  had  taken 
a  fancy  to  this  young  man  and  she  smiled 
upon  him. 

"Will  you  give  me  leave  to  take  your 
housemaid  for  a  walk  this  afternoon? 
She  is  my  sister." 

He  stood  quite  still.  It  seemed  to  him, 
in  the  next  instant,  that  he  had  sacrificed 
he  knew  not  what. 

Then,  with  a  little  quick  movement,  he 
looked  up.  On  the  drawing-room  window- 
step,  stood  Gwen. 

Esther  Bold's  son  met  his  bride's  beau- 
tiful eyes  full. 


EPILOGUE 

AQUAETEB  of  an  hour  before  lunch, 
after    a    morning    that    seemed    a 
dream,  David  Bold  sought  his  room.    He 
believed   he  was  going   to   write   to   his 
mother. 

Thrusting  itself  from  beneath  the  pin- 
cushion on  his  dressing-table,  he  caught 
sight  of  the  corner  of  a  slate-gray  envel- 
ope :  and  drew  it  out.  It  was  unaddressed, 
but  he  opened  it.  His  sister  wrote  to  him 
on  paper  of  this  depressing  shade.  Some 
one  had  made  her  a  present  of  a  box  of 
"fancy  stationery ":  and  Emily >s  limited 
correspondence  took  a  long  while  to  get 
through  it.  Inside  was  a  half  sheet. 

"Dear  Dave,  I  heard  you  with  her 
ladyship,  up  at  her  bedroom  window 

277 


278  Bedesman  4 

sweeping.  Dear  Dave,  don't  say  a  word 
for  them  to  know  downstairs.  If  you 
wants  me,  come  in  the  little  wood  out  of 
the  white  garden  wicket  quarter  to  six, 
and  I  '11  be  there.  Your  loving  Emily. ' ' 

David  turned  the  missive  over  in  his 
hands.  His  first  impulse  was  to  rebellion. 
Since  Gwen,  stepping  quietly,  after  that 
encounter  of  eyes,  down  from  the  window- 
step,  had  passed  round  the  corner  of  the 
house,  and  he  had  followed  her,  the  world 
was  new-made.  He  was  in  no  mood  to  put 
up  with  any  nonsense  of  the  servants '  hall. 
But  he  saw  that  Emily  must  know  best 
where  her  own  shoe  pinched.  Her  brother 
must  consent  for  once  to  slink  out  of  the 
house  to  meet  her,  as  if  they  had  some- 
thing to  be  ashamed  of.  When  the  hour 
came,  he  saw  a  white  sailor  hat  among  the 
trees,  as  he  approached. 

"Come    along    this    ways,"    she    said, 


Epilogue  279 

eagerly,  "there  won't  nobody  see  us.  Oh, 
Dave,  why  ever  did  'ee  go  telling  up  to 
her  ladyship  like  that?" 

He  only  smiled.  To  make  her  under- 
stand why  appeared  to  him  an  irrelevance. 
"Never  mind,  Sis.  That's  all  right. 
I  've  news  to  tell  you,  if  you  can't  guess 
it." 

"To  be  sure  I  can,"  she  answered,  her 
cheek  flushing  hotly;  "whatever  do  her 
ladyship  say?" 

"Her  ladyship,  kind  woman — well,  Miss 
Brydon  has  taken  charge  of  her.  It  *s  you 
I  'm  concerned  with  now,  child.  Explain 
to  me  where  downstairs  comes  in." 

"Dave,  if  they  was  to  know!  I  'd  run 
right  away  home.  I  'ouldn't  have  the 
face  to  stop.  I  sha*  give  warning  to-night, 
now  as  you  Ve  told  me.  I  sha'  say  as 
Mother  wants  me  home.  Her  ladyship 
'11  let  me  go." 

He  pulled  up  in  the  midst  of  the  path. 


280  Bedesman  4 

"I  don't  know  that  I  can  have  that,"  he 
said,  slowly. 

"Thee  can't  help  it,"  said  Emily  stub- 
bornly. "I  tell  'ee  there  's  things  as  you 
can't  put  up  with,  nor  I  won't." 

(If  a  thing  could  be  stupid,  it  was  a  man. 
Did  he  think  his  sister  was  going  to  sit  and 
listen  to  that  Glover's  observations  about 
him?)  "Thee  got  to  prevent  'em  know- 
ing," she  repeated. 

David  had  met  that  "dunt"  look  in  those 
eyes,  when  they  went  together  to  school. 
Counsels  of  perfection,  too,  are  not  to  be 
forced. 

1 l  You  must  have  it  your  own  way,  I  sup- 
pose, Sis.  I  'm  sorry  you  '11  be  out  of  a 
good  place." 

"Bless  'ee,  I  can  see  to  myself,"  said 
Emily,  coolly.  She  looked  into  the  re- 
cesses of  the  wood  and  smiled.  "I  mid  be 
off  to  Canada  for  what  I  knows,"  she  ob- 
served, looking  at  him  obliquely.  "No, 


Epilogue  281 

thee  have  n't  heard  nothing  about  that,  nor 
more  haven't  Mother.  She  been  ill,  and 
I  did  n't  mean  leavin'  of  her.  But  I  had  a 
letter  from  him  this  morning.''  She  felt 
in  her  pocket.  "I  must  ha'  lef  it  in  the 
drawer. ' ' 

1  '  Who  is  he,  then?" 

" Second  gardener  up  to  Darner's;  John 
Byman,  you  can  mind  of  'n. ' ' 

"Certainly.  And  does  John  Ryman 
want  my  sister?"  Something  silent  and 
elemental  stirred  in  David  as  he  spoke. 

She  nodded.  "Mother  she  don't  think 
bad  of  'n.  Nor  Dad.  But  now  he  's  got 
that  far,  as  he  means  going  out  there  in  a 
year  or  that,  and  will  I  come  too?"  She 
paused. 

"Will  you?"  her  brother  said  gently, 
fresh  from  his  own  romance. 

"I  don't  hold  with  them  chauffeurs," 
said  Emily,  with  seeming  irrelevance, 
"else  I  might  have  had  Captain  Symes's. 


282  Bedesman  4 

Gives  theirselves  airs  they  does,  wi'  their 
caps,  never  was !  Nor  yet  I  don't  wi'  but- 
tlers.  Look  at  that  Glover!  They  don't 
know  what  's  in  that  pantry  cupboard! 
And  as  for  coachmen!  bless  'ee!  well!" 

Her  lifted  chin  spoke  Portia's  resolve, 
to  "do  anything  ere  she  would  be  married 
to  a  sponge." 

"Be  there  any  honest  men  left,  Hal?" 
David  wondered. 

"And  second  gardeners,  eh?"  he  said 
and  smiled.  Emily  pursed  her  mouth. 

"Do  'ee  think  Mother  'd  have  let  him 
over  door-stone,  if  he  hadn't  been  pledge? 
They  say  as  he  '11  do  well  out  there,  when 
he  's  got  his  chance.  I  don't  know  all  of 
it—" 

They  went  on  together  silently  under 
the  arching  trees,  till  he  found  her  looking 
aslant  at  him,  and  met  her  eyes.  There 
was  a  dumbness  in  them  as  of  old,  and  the 
old  appeal,  of  common  blood,  of  home. 


Epilogue  283 

But  there  was  something  else,  that  was 
new  and  a  question. 

1  'You  're  fond  of  him,  Sis,"  said  David. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  slowly,  "I  been 
fond  on  him — this  two  years."  Silence 
again.  Then,  suddenly,  a  quick  little  sob. 

"But  I  be  awful  fond— o'  thee." 

She  had  her  arms  about  his  neck.  He 
drew  her  to  him,  and  they  stood  together 
mutely,  like  lovers. 

"I  'm — rich,"  said  David  Bold,  with  a 
catch  in  his  voice. 

The  wooden-legged  man  glanced  at  the 
carriage  at  the  head  of  the  lane.  Two 
young  figures  were  turning  in  at  his  own 
gate.  One,  tall  and  gracious,  wore  a 
dainty  white  gown  and  a  plumed  hat.  He 
pulled  up  crossing  the  field.  The  thing 
flabbergasted  you  a  bit.  Surveying  his 
right  palm,  he  rubbed .  it  vehemently  on 
his  white  trouser-leg,  having  first  well 


284  Bedesman  4 

licked  it.  Poor  William  Bold!  His  wild- 
est dreams  had  not  pictured  a  woman  like 
that. 

His  Esther  sat  darning  in  a  low  chair 
outside  the  cottage  door.  She  looked  up 
calmly  as  the  gate  fell  to. 

1  'Mother,"  her  son  said,  "I  Ve  brought 
my  Gwen." 

The  maiden  in  white  slipped  quietly  on 
to  her  knees,  to  be  on  a  level. 

"Please  kiss  me,"  her  deep  tones  said, 
simply. 

The  two  women  looked  into  each  other's 
eyes.  Their  lips  met. 


THE   END 


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